


Both a Noun and a Verb

by ChibiSquirt



Series: Before and After (In a Long, Long Life) [2]
Category: Blood-Smoke Series - Tanya Huff, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Changing Tenses, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, The Howling Commandos (TV show)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 03:46:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 72,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6837859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Tony Foster had the toe of his left foot positioned behind the heel of his right when the smell hit him:  Cherries.  His whole apartment </em>reeked<em> of cherries.  </em>And also faintly of dextromethorphan,<em> he thought, as a sharp blow caught him behind the left ear. </em></p><p>Or:  The one where Bucky kidnaps a wizard to help him fix his brain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Escape

**Author's Note:**

> NSFW.
> 
> Trigger Warning: The standard sorts of things that happen to the Winter Soldier while in the loving care of HYDRA.
> 
> This, as well as the preceding fic, entitled [The Howling Commandos (new series on HBO)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6673390), should be understandable, regardless of whether or not you have read the Smoke Series. (However, _THC on HBO_ is fairly necessary for this one to make sense.)

I wake up malfunctioning; I always wake up malfunctioning, but this one is different.  They speak the words to reset me, and the words work because they _always_ work, but even afterwards, I continue to malfunction, screaming until my voice was raw, my head a blaze of pain.  

A conversation is occurring on my left.  I can’t hear it clearly enough to make out, but I know it's there from the intermittent glimpses of sounds.  I can’t stop screaming long enough to listen, though, so I only catch the last of t when I begin to go hoarse:

“Wipe him, then!  Maybe that will shut him up!”  

A door slams.

The pain in my skull is so bad that I almost don’t notice the sting of a needle entering my arm.  The restraints do not tighten, because they were never loosened in the first place, but men and women move around me, and I realize that they are preparing me for the memory modification procedures that usually precede my sedation.  

This is unusual, as my recall does not include a completed mission.

They offer a mouth guard, and I take it. _Seems like a good plan, regardless._

A man in a white coat appears from a bank of fog.  No, not fog; a halo.  My mind throws up a memory:

_A man dressed as a doctor stands in front of a bank of bright lights, the set of the medical drama surrounding him.  As the patient of the week, I display trepidation and despair while he explains that my visual disturbances are symptoms of a -_

“Migraine!”  I gasp the word, and the man who came out of the fog pauses.

“Hold that wipe,” he commands sharply.

“But, sir - !”

“I said, hold the damned wipe!”

“Secretary’s orders, sir.”  

The second man does not want to hold the wipe.  The wipes, I remember, cause more pain.  I hope it is not the second man’s decision.

“The Secretary,” the first man says, “does not want to lose the use of his asset, and especially not now.  So _hold the damned wipe,_ you moronic pile of biochemical waste, and get the Secretary on the phone.”  He turns to another man, one I cannot see because of the fog on my right side.  “Get me an apron, I want a CT of his brain.”  He pivots, then, almost leaving my field of view.  

“Not an MRI, Dr. Brubaker?”  

The man turns, slowly.  His head is the only part of him I can see, the rest swallowed up by the gray fog, but his head turns completely around, so surely he has pivoted.   _Seems more likely than him being part owl._

“An MRI?  Did you really just - an _MRI?”_ The first man is furious, and I can hear the unknown questioner cowering in my blind spot.  “Are you _stupid?_  Did you even go to medical school?  Look at this man!  What problem - what slight, teensy, _incredibly fucking obvious problem -_ might he have with an MRI?”

The room is silent except for my own harsh panting.

“Get me the CT scan.  And then get out of my sight.”

I turn my head to the side and vomit.

When I have finished, they rinse out my mouth, cleaning off and reinstating the mouth guard, which had fallen on the floor.  Someone throws a heavy blanket over me, especially on my left arm.  No, not a blanket; I can see that this is the lead apron requested by the furious doctor.  

I close my eyes again, awaiting the scan.  While the pain has subsided in intensity, now that I am awake and accustomed to it, the lights of even the dim vault stab into me.  And anyway, I don’t need to see to be scanned.

* * *

“Jesus,” Dr. Brubaker mutters.  “Are you seeing this?”  

Either he isn’t addressing anyone but himself, or no answer is needed.

A minute later, he has the Secretary on the phone.  I don’t remember the Secretary, but I know that he is supervising this operation.

“He’s bleeding into his brain,” the doctor says to the man on the other end of the line.  “If he were human, he’d already be dead.”

I am apparently not human.  

_Good to know._

“We can’t send him out like this, he’ll short-circuit something he needs and foul the mission.”

Mission non-completion does not end well for me; I don’t remember how I know this, but nevertheless, I know.

“If _I_ had a brain injury this bad, I’d be screaming my damned head off.  We’re all lucky down here that he’s gone quiet, _for now,_ but who knows how long that will last?  You think your operative is going to remain covert standing in the middle of a DC street screaming?”

Detection by non-combatants during missions is another thing that does not end well for me.  I don’t remember how I learned this, either, but I still know it.

“All we have to do is wait, Secretary.  His body will heal itself, and whoever you need killed will still be there tomorrow.”

A pause, and then the doctor sighs, aggravated, and stomps over to me.  “Soldier!” he calls, and I look over at him.  “If we sent you out on a mission, could you complete it successfully in your current condition?”

The only acceptable answer is yes.  The truthful answer, though, is no.  And deception has been punished harshly in the past.

I say nothing.

Impatiently, he retrieves the bite guard from my mouth.  “Well?  Could you?”

I say, “Apple.”

I blink.  That is not what I had intended to say.  

The doctor looks blankly at me for a moment, then shoves the bite guard back in my mouth.  I flex my jaw a bit to get it to settle right as he says, “Your soldier is aphasic.  I don’t even know if the code words worked, because I don’t know if he understood them.  No.  No.  I don’t care.   _Your tool is broken, Secretary!”_

The pain begins to spike again behind my left temple, and I pant as the gray fog shifts around the room.

 _“Really?_  Really.  I don’t even know where to _begin_ with that idiocy!

“He is not ‘fighting the wipe’, Secretary!  The wipe is fighting him!  The last things done to this guy were:  physical exam, wipe, and stasis.  The physical exam didn’t include brain scans, but it did otherwise indicate that he was fine.  He definitely wasn’t answering yes or no questions with fruits, let’s just say that.  Then the wipe, then the freeze.  

“The freeze doesn’t do jack in the way of damage, we know that.  So it has to be the wipe that’s causing the hemorrhage, and really, given the trauma involved in the process, that’s hardly surprising.  I mean, there’s a reason he screams, you know?"  

The doctor pauses in his angry ranting as the person on the other end of the line replies in kind, and apparently gets a hold on his temper, because his voice is patient the next time he speaks.  “No, you're underestimating his capacity for self-repair.  Just give him a day to fix his head, Secretary.  Whoever you need killed will still be there tomorrow.”

There is a pause.  

“Well, if it’s all that important, you probably don’t want a misfire,” the doctor says finally, and whoever the Secretary is, apparently he realizes that this is a good point.  

The men I can’t see talk amongst each other as the doctor tells them that they are leaving me there for the rest of the afternoon and evening.  He instructs them to leave me pinned in the chair.  “He’ll be there when we get back, and it saves us the effort of getting him back in the Chair in the morning if we _do_ have to wipe him again.”

“But you just told Secretary Pierce - !”

“And I’m 90% sure I’m right.  But there’s a small chance that the hemorrhage is from the memories returning, and if that’s the case, a wipe is just about the only thing that will do it.”

The silence is accusing.

“Oh, come on, it’s not going to…  He’ll be blank in the morning, you’ll see.”

“Hey,” says another voice, a female one.  Must be one of the techs, since I couldn’t see her before.  “If it’s a migraine, should we be giving him anything?  I mean, we’ve already got the IV in, it wouldn’t be hard.”

“What, like pain relief?”  The doctor makes a scornful noise in his throat.  “Look, even if we _were_ going to waste the drugs on him, there’s nothing that’ll work on his physiology.  But more to the point, the next time we wipe him, he won’t even remember this, anyway.  It’s like circumcising a newborn, you don’t need to worry about it hurting him.  He’ll just have to deal with it until he forgets.”

“Is _he_ circumcised?” another female wonders mischievously, as their footsteps recede and the lights go out.  Laughter echoes, Dopplering away.

I sit in the Chair, my legs and arms spread by the restraints, the mouth guard between my teeth.  I’m in the _Chair,_ and if I have remembered my life by the time the men arrive in the morning, they will wipe me again.  

 _I smile guilelessly at a blond man in a red uniform.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I inform him, with just enough_ you are crazy _in my voice that he believes me._

Deception has been punished harshly in the past.  

I sit in the dark, helpless and in pain.

* * *

 

When the morning comes, I have remembered quite a lot.  

Thankfully, the pain has receded - I realized around three that a fresh wave of nausea was heralding a change in the stabbing, aching, all-consuming migraine; after that it went down to a mere persistent headache, and now even that is fading - and I am clear-headed enough to consider my options.

They are:  

  1. Lie to the men when they ask me whether I have remembered.  Lying has previously resulted in exceptional amounts of pain.
  2. Tell them the truth.  This will involve a wipe, which also involves a great deal of pain.  And also, if the doctor last night was correct, may precipitate a return of the migraine.
  3. Find a loophole.  Consequences unknown.



Loophole it is, then.

My right leg cramps, and I realize that I am fighting the restraints again.  I relax by force of will, and consider the other problem that has surfaced with the memories.  Namely:  they’re not my memories.

My current scenario indicates that one set of memories - the ones I have tentatively labelled “my memories”, involving the chair, the cryo chamber, the doctors, and Secretary Pierce, who I recollected at around five today - those memories correspond to my current circumstances.  And, since they comply with “my memories”, I believe those un-recollected things which I _know,_  like the severity of the punishment for failing to complete mission objectives, are also truth.    

My other memories - the “false memories” - indicate that I am an actor from Canada, who just had a magic spell performed on him.  

An example of how I know that these memories are false:  

  1. The actor from Canada was cuffed to a stack of chairs.
  2. I would not be held if I were cuffed to a stack of chairs.  I could break the cuff, lift the chairs, or break my hand to get out of the cuff.  Or some combination of the three.
  3. I am not currently cuffed to a stack of chairs, I am manacled (rather more securely) to _the_ Chair.  



So yeah, I am not that actor guy, and that’s not my memory.

I can’t help but notice, though, that I’ve got a lot more of this guy’s memory than I have of my own.  

Follow-up thought:  I know the memories are not mine, but are they real?  Are they actually _someone else’s_ memories, or just synthetic ones?  

My instinct is to believe that they are someone else’s memories - real ones.  For one thing, they seem both extensive and detailed.  I can remember my nephew’s name, my sister-in-law’s face, my boss’s _terrifyingness,_ and the fact that he’s technically not my boss anymore.  I can remember the taste of Tony’s hot, hungry mouth, or of Darcy’s smooth, creamy skin.  Or of Julie’s sensitive ears, which was not a good taste; she should probably clean those out.

(I can remember that she shouldn’t use Q-tips for it, though, because the little box of Q-tips says never to stick them in the ear canal, even though _literally everyone_ sticks them in their ear canals.  It’s why you _buy Q-tips._ I can remember that this paradox annoys me.)

I can remember _having_ thoughts like these, but I know that they are not my thoughts.  They aren’t even _how_ I would think about things.

For one thing, I’m pretty sure I don’t actually care about how people use Q-tips.  

The Canadian actor has a name, I remember.  Lee.  Lee Nicholas.  I should probably use it.

Or not, I reconsider; he’s not here, and I’m not planning on telling anyone that I have his memories, anyway.

Follow-up thought:  Why _do_ I have his memories?  Why would anyone deposit the memory of a moderately-successful Canadian actor into a highly-successful but nameless assassin?  Unless they were trying to make the nameless assassin miss their target; that’s about the only reason I can think of.  But I don’t even know my target and, I’m guessing, based on the conversation last night, neither does the medical team overseeing me.  So how would person-who-gave-me-these-memories (probably _not_ Lee Nicholas) know who my target was?  

And what’s the point?  Anybody who knows about me, and knows about my target, is most likely one of my handlers, so why not just order me _not to kill the target?_

Unless there is some debate over the suitability of the target, and my handlers are countermanding each other.

Or, I realize with a chill, unless there is some debate over the suitability of the assassin.    

Suddenly, there is a very plausible reason to implant me with defective, Canadian-actor memories.  If you are trying to get rid of an assassin, giving him a handicap right before sending him out, is…  Well.  It’s a pretty good way to do it.  

With a head full of false memories, I’d even be all ready for my interrogation when they captured me.  I had thought that actor guy and I had two things in common:  

  1. Unusual encounters with chairs
  2. Altered memories.



But upon realizing that this may be a fall job, I add one more thing to the list:

  1.  Physical appearance.



We don’t look that much alike, but we look alike _enough_ that I’m pretty sure it counts.  We look enough alike that, when I tell them his name and they check it against his licence, I’ll match to a visual inspection.  

I may even be a passable match to an automated inspection.

Or if they re-cast his part in that _Howling Commandos_ show, I could easily take his place.

(Uneasily, I recognize that last thought as being closer to one of his than to one of mine.  Concerning, I decide, but not urgently so.)

This could be very bad for me.

Could also be pretty bad for him, if he’s a real person (as I suspect) and they are planning to give me his identity.  The first step of that plan is to eliminate him, so he’s probably already dead.

His friends might not be, though.  I search his memories; he had some good friends.

I frown, and search his memories further.

He had some _powerful_ friends.  If his friends want vengeance, there is a good chance that they will get it.

 _And if they don’t want vengeance, maybe I do,_ I think suddenly.  Actor guy seemed like an okay guy, based on his memories.  It seems a shame that he should die just to frame me.

I’d like to pay whoever is responsible for this back for that.  Me and his memories could do it together.

* * *

Dr. Brubaker is back.  “Aaaaannnnd good morning!” he calls to his team, aggressively cheerful.  Without the fog in place today, I can see them, well-dressed, the majority in scrubs or lab coats.  They all flinch back at his bright, manic tone.  He comes in waving a cup in his hand that Lee’s memories identify as Starbucks.  I feel my lip start to curl, and bring it back into place.

The doctor looks at me, then at the floor.  “Well, that’s one mouth guard we won’t be using again in a hurry,” he mutters, looking at the pile of vomit that I deposited beside me sometime during the night.  The mouth guard lies in the center of it, haphazardly perched in a puddle of puke which is already eroding both it and the tiled floor.  

Lee’s memories think it looks like a Zombie Mouth Guard.

Lee’s memories need to _fuck off_ for the next hour.

(Although they’re right about the zombies.)

“Soldier,” Dr. Brubaker says, positioning himself in front of me.  His coffee smells a lot better than my puke does.  “What do you remember?”

I can’t lie, and I don’t want to be wiped.  I look for the loophole, for the thing which is itself true, but makes them believe falsehoods.  “Pain,” I say.

“And other than that?”

“Fog,” I say.  The doctor frowns at me, and I clarify, “Across my vision.”  I’d wave a hand to indicate where, but I’m still pinned in the damned Chair.

“And other than that?”

I search for something else I can give him, another loophole.  “I woke up screaming, and malfunctioning.”

The doctor is beginning to look pleased.  “And other than that?” he presses again.  

I am running out of loopholes, here.  “There are words to make the malfunction correct itself; they were spoken yesterday.”  Technically true.

“And other than that?”  The doctor already looks smug.  “Is there anything you’ve remembered about your life _before_ waking up?”

Thank fucking god, that’s the most perfect loophole yet.  “No.  I don’t remember anything about my life at all.”

Lee’s life is a different story.  But he didn’t ask about that.  The prick.

The doctor nods, preening already.  “Get Secretary Pierce on the phone again,” he instructs a minion on my left.  “His Soldier is good to go.”  His lip curls in disgust.  “Although maybe we should wash him off, first.”

* * *

I am sent to kill a man named Fury, Nicholas J.  I am given plenty of backup and ammunition, and told to make it as public as possible.  This man is very dangerous, and he has done a lot of harm, I am told.  His death needs to be writ large.

In that case, I say, I’d also like some more explosives.

They give me those, too.  It will be a good mission.  

* * *

It is not a good mission.  

The target escapes.  My two squads of backup and I are definitely in the doghouse, and I wonder if it’s the sabotage, the plan to get me captured.  I almost assumed that’s the issue, even though I don’t have any proof that there even is any sabotage - it’s only one possible explanation for my condition, after all - except.  

I mean, it’s embarrassing:  I lost the target with two squads of support and all that beautiful firepower, Jesus, maybe it is the sabotage, and if so, holy hell is it working.  

Except.

I sort of don’t think this one’s on me.  

The guy cut through the road in under thirty seconds; that’s pretty wiley.

* * *

Movement where there shouldn’t be movement, and the start of an old record, alert the analysts as to his new position.  I am informed that there is a rooftop right across from a beautiful pair of (sightlines) windows, and I am authorized to take the shot when ready.

I want to ask why a snipe is acceptable now, when “as public as possible” was the word a couple hours ago.  

I know (but don’t remember) that I would never have asked, before.  

Probably a bad idea to let on that I’ve changed.  

I don’t ask.

* * *

Fury, Nicholas J., is not in his own apartment, which makes sense; if someone had tried to kill me, I wouldn’t go home, either.  The _actual_ owner of the apartment enters the place as I set up my stand and scope, leaning forward over the rife.

 _I know him,_ I think in shock.  

The two men talk, saying nothing of consequence, and Fury passes the blond man an information drive.  

 _I know that man,_ my brain insists, in two different voices.  

“Soldier,” says my com, “You are cleared to take the shot as soon as you are ready.”

They know that I am in position.  

They know that I have the shot.  

Failure to achieve mission objectives results in pain.

But I know that man.

_Fuck it._

I fire three times, because some of the bullets will be wasted busting a big enough hole in the wall, and I need at least one to entire the target.

Then I collapse my stand and run.

* * *

The blond man is following me.  

 _Steve,_ Lee’s memories name him.

  _I knew that, thanks,_ I think at them.

Anyway.  Steve is following me.  

I hear a grunt and a faint hiss of metal, and I know what it is even before I turn, my arm snapping up just like it used to _(used to…?!),_ only faster, catching the edge instead of the center of the metal disk.

All things considered, the look on his face when I catch the shield is definitely the best part of my day.  

I throw it back, hard, hard enough to eviscerate him _(no, not Steve, he’s hardy and he’s fast, he’ll catch it)._ I jump off the building, grapple off a lamp post, and escape.

* * *

The list of things Lee and I have in common has grown, I think, crouching in the window of a nearby office, watching the sirens passing below.  

  1. Unusual encounters with chairs
  2. Altered memories
  3. Devilish good looks
  4. We both know Steve.



* * *

They promised me a minion waiting to drive me back to the base, but at this point I’m assuming he won’t really be there.

I knew that man, tonight.  

 _Steve,_ Lee’s memories named him, and I thought back at them, _I knew that._  But when I search my mind for memories of him, all the ones that arise are Lee’s.  When I _clear_ my mind, waiting for that source-less knowledge which seems to be the only kind I’ve got, all that arises is excitement, and a conviction:   _Steve!  Steve is_ great! 

So my own memories are not real helpful.

(Although, remembering the sight of Steve running, jumping, throwing the shield tonight, I think:  Yeah, he _is_ pretty great.)

Lee’s memories, though, those _are_ helpful.  They tell me that Steve is Captain America.  They tell me that he is a good person, an incarnation of Justice, not only in America, but in much of the First World, who will not rest while he sees wrongs being done.  

(They tell me that he probably needs more hugs.  Less helpful.)  

They tell me that he can run faster than a car on a moderately clear street.  

They tell me that he and five other people faced off against an alien army, and won.

They tell me survived seventy years frozen in ice _and still looks like that, for God’s sake._

My handlers must have known whose apartment that was; they knew he would be there.  They must have expected him to catch me - I’m good, but I’m one hell of a lot less dangerous than an alien fucking army!

The fall job has just gone from a possibility to certainty.

So wherever I’m going now, I’m _not_ going back to the handlers.

* * *

There’s an apartment with a television running, but no lights on; inside, I can hear a dog whining because it needs to go out, the pitch getting more and more desperate.  The owner must still be away, having left the television on to discourage break-ins; I bust a window and climb right on through, so that’s not working too well.

I steal a jacket and a change of clothes, bundling my tac gear into a duffle I find in the closet.  There’s a lot of cash in the apartment; the uniforms in the closet tell me the owner is in some kind of service position, the kind that gets paid in tips.  There are also several packs of cigarettes and lighters, which I steal because they make a good disguise, and also because some part of me misses the feel of a cigarette in my hand.  

There’s food in the kitchen.  I take a box of protein shakes and a plastic jug of protein powder, tossing those into the duffle.  They’ll make good fuel, portable and non-perishable.  I grab a knife, too, because you can never have too many.  

There’s also a spare set of keys, and a leash; I take the dog for a walk.  

As the dog sniffs at the grass, I weigh my options.  

1\.  Go back to the handlers.  

Likely to result in pain, death, or pain and then death.  Possibly death and then pain - having never died before, I can’t take that one off the table.

2\. Turn myself in.  

Requires finding someone who will protect me from the handlers.  The concepts of “state’s evidence” and “plea bargain” rattle around in the back of my mind, although I’m not convinced Lee knew any more about the process than I do.  

The problem with that is, some of the handlers had very official titles; what if they are part of the government?  Given how hard they had worked to convince me of just that, I find it unlikely; if it were true, they wouldn’t have worked nearly that hard.  But it’s still possible.  I don’t want to turn myself in, only to find myself right back at possibility number one.  

(Plus, they’d want me to disarm, and that would have to be pretty literal in my case.  No thanks.)

3\.  Run away.  

I don’t have any resources, but I’m pretty resource _ful:_ I can probably get some gathered up.  For example, it’s been fifteen minutes, and I already have gathered cash, cigarettes, clothes, food, a knife, and a dog.  I’m only planning to return that last one.  I can find somewhere remote, with not a lot of cameras; physically change my appearance somewhat (maybe a beard?); take up some kind of profession, get a cover story nicely dug in.  

It’s workable; they’d most likely never catch me.

Objectively, there is nothing wrong with possibility number three, but it fills me with a sort of horror, an instinctive refusal that I have difficulty articulating to myself as the dog sniffs and circles.  Finally, it clicks in, and I sigh.

Even being an assassin, at least I was working for a cause.  Wrong methods, sure, but everyone kept telling me they were working to make the world a better place.  And I needed to hear that.  I knew all the consequences of failure, and sure, those were plenty good reasons not to fail (I like having intestines).  But, honestly, I took pride in my work, dark and grisly though it was.  I liked shaping the future, making it better.  Being some guy on with a farm, or a garage, or an interior design firm, isn’t going to make that happen.  I need a cause.

4\.  Team up with someone else.

 _“The weakness of one man is balanced by the strength of his fellows,”_ a strident, Midwestern voice says in my memory.   

Teaming up seems like sound strategy - it’ll let me work towards a cause, but with significantly decreased risk of dying compared to working on my own - but who can I team up _with?_  The handlers I just left, the ones who told me they were changing the world and making it better, just set me up to kill, or at least take a shot at, one of the most famously good men in the world.    

I need to be able to trust whoever I go to.  

I start another list.

  1. I don’t have any memories; therefore, I don’t have any friends.
  2. Lee had a lot of friends; powerful ones.
  3. Lee is almost certainly dead; surely, one of his powerful friends will want vengeance.
  4. Steve is one of Lee’s powerful friends, but he will probably want vengeance for the man I shot in his apartment tonight, and possibly also for throwing a shield at him hard enough to knock a normal person off the roof while also ripping through their intestines like a warm spoon through cherry cordial ice cream.
  5. Maybe I should not go to anyone who is also friends with Steve.
  6. Luckily, Lee has friends other than the Avengers.



* * *

After a surprisingly long internal debate, I return the dog to the vandalized apartment.  Then I head west and north on foot for three hours until I’m about twenty-five miles outside the city.  There’s a set of train tracks crossing the road, here; I follow them up a few hundred yards, waiting until I feel the characteristic rumbling of the rails.  

I take a few steps back, waiting in the shadows of the surrounding trees as the engineer steers the vehicle around the curve.  Then, as the freight cars pass in front of me, I taking a running leap, grabbing the bar on the side of the nearest car.  I pull myself up, climbing in a way that reminds both Lee and I of gym class.  

The dog definitely could not have done this; leaving it behind was a good decision.  

(Still kind of regret it, though.)  

I anchor a loop of rope from my tac gear around the metal bar, hitching the other end around myself with a carabiner.  I eat a protein bar, wishing I’d grabbed a bottle of water, then lay back and take a nap.

* * *

The trains get me surprisingly far, and I walk the rest of the way.  I’m in Vancouver inside of two weeks.

* * *

* * *

Tony watched cautiously as his apprentice twisted the threads together with her right hand:  once, twice, three times, just as the instructions dictated.  She breathed on them, glanced at the index card on the table, and intoned a series of words in no earthly languages, then fed the threads into the flame of the candle in front of her.

They twisted into charred wires, smoking and smelling remarkably similar to burnt hair.  

“Arrrrgh!” Bri snapped, pouting as only a thirteen year old could.  “What the hell is wrong with this thing?”

“What do _you_ think is wrong?” Tony temporized, having learned the hard way never to admit ignorance if it was at all possible to avoid it.  

“I think it’s stupid, that’s what I think!”

Tony leaned back in his chair, giving her a Look.  

“Fine,” she sighed.  “I think the threads aren’t holding the spell.”

“Sounds right,” Tony agreed.  If the spell were really resonating with the threads, they would take on what Tony had started calling a Significance; it was a property which some objects had and most didn’t, drawing the eye, feeling powerful in a way he consistently failed to put into words.  The grimoire, he remembered, had had Significance.  

Basically, if the threads had Significance, they would be to normal threads what Henry was to normal people.

These threads, on the other hand, had been decidedly _in_ significant before Brianna burned them, despite this being the fifth try at the spell.  

“Why do you think that is?” Tony asked challenging Bri to follow up.

Bri made a dissatisfied moue at the threads which, really, was not the worst reaction she could be having right now.  “I can’t get away with, ‘I think it’s stupid’?” she asked hopefully.

Tony didn’t say anything, not really seeing how he could contribute to that one.

“Fine,” she sighed.  “Then let’s try, ‘I don’t care’.”

“Not cool, Bri,” he replied, a little scornfully.

“It’s so stupid, Tony!  We’re doing a spell to gather up old spells; how does that even matter?”

“Well, for one thing,” Tony said, frowning at her, “It makes the studio less of a target the next time something Nasty comes to town.  Which helps keep your Dad safe.”  

As weird as it was working for the father of his apprentice, it was even weirder training the daughter of his boss, and Tony occasionally had difficulty sorting through his loyalty to CB - the producer who had hired him straight out of film school, and then promoted him all the way up to Assistant Director over the course of five years - when it conflicted with his loyalty to Brianna - the only apprentice he had, and actually, not a bad one.  

“I sort of think keeping the Nasty away from my Dad is more likely to keep the Nasty safe,” Bri pointed out.  Given that her father was well over six feet tall and almost as wide, and that he had once voluntarily closed a troll in his office with him until they’d finished filming an expensive stunt, only for the troll to be unconscious and serving as a footrest when they opened the door, Tony had to admit she had a point.  

On the other hand, _I’m ready to leave and I need this place to be safe when I do_ was probably not going to go over well.  

_I just don’t want to leave a mess when I go._

Which gave him an idea.  “Do you wash your dishes at home?” he asked, not really sure of the answer because Brianna was a teenager, and also because her mother was very, very rich.  

She shrugged.  “Someone washes them,” she answered, which meant _no, but I am really more interested in the analogy than in the details, because I am actually interested in your theory on this particular piece of magic._

She was actually a pretty good apprentice.  Tony would have smiled fondly at her, but it would go to her head, and she could be a real little shit when she thought she was in his good graces.  

“Why?” Tony asked.

“Because otherwise they get all manky and gross?”  Vocal tone indicated that this was pretty obvious, and she was concerned that he felt the need to ask her.

“And what happens when they do that?”

“They get… bugs… and stuff…?”

“Okay.  So if the old spells that have been cast here are the equivalent of old bits of food…”

“We’re being magical Terminix,” she filled in, face clearing.

“More like magical Palmolive, but yeah.”

She looked around the soundstage, taking in the familiar sights of the cameras, lights, and sets - the last being in a half-assembled state, as filming switched from the Cairo scene to one set in Chicago.  “So this is the first time you’re casting this spell here in the studio?” she asked thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I just found it on the WizardPedia.”  Which was not what Arra had named the instruction manual he was using for their wizardry, but, really, it might as well have been.  

“Haven’t you been a wizard for five years?” Bri asked dubiously.  

“Yeah?”

“Please tell me you do your dishes more often than that.”

_“I just found the spell!”_

Bri looked at the 95% of a hank of embroidery floss still lying on the table, mouth tilted pensively to the side.  “Okay,” she said, sighing with as much resignation as she could muster - which was a lot, thanks for asking.  “Let’s try this one more time, and then we’re going out shopping.  If it works, I’m buying shoes for the dance on Friday.”

Tony gave her his best _disappointed in your lack of diligence_ face, which admittedly was not that great.  “And if it doesn’t work?  Then what'll you buy a matching purse?”

His _mocking you_ voice, on the other hand, was _fantastic._

“I was thinking that if it doesn’t work, we might need a different kind of thread.”

“That could also be the problem,” Tony admitted, having found that the smallest details made annoyingly large differences in the outcomes of his spells.  The brand of cherry-flavored cough syrup he used for his wards, for example, had been discontinued, causing him to stockpile so many bottles that he’d been accused of making meth.  

The thread they were using was cotton.  Tony’d had good luck with cotton in the past, including a spell which required a “cloth familiar to the caster”, for which he had sacrificed his favorite pair of jeans.  However, while at the craft store buying thread, he’d seen silk on the shelf, and he was developing a depressing adage about “the more expensive the ingredient, the more likely that shit is to work.”  

He’d also gone with white thread, because the fewer dyes used, the better, but frequently the most effective ingredients for him turned out to be blue; Tony hadn’t quite figured out the reasoning for that one, yet.  Brianna seemed to have more luck with yellow, which made even less sense.

With shoes on the line and her motivation properly explained, though, Brianna appeared to mean business.  She studied the index card with the words on it one more time, then cut some more floss off and closed her eyes, concentrating.  Tony could feel her gathering her power - it felt a like the human equivalent of gaining Significance - and then she popped open her eyes, twisted the thread three times, and rattled off the words.

When she burned the threads, they burned blue with pink stripes.

Blinking away after-images, Tony patted Bri on her shoulder.   

“So,” she said, looking at him hopefully.  “Shoes?”

* * *

“Five fucking pairs of shoes, you _can’t_ convince me she needs all of those for the freaking dance,” Tony grumbled, phone cradled against his shoulder as he locked the door of his apartment.  

 _“I’m not convinced she needed any of them for the dance,”_ Lee Nicholas noted from approximately three thousand miles away.  His location three time zones to the east, when combined with the highly-favorable odds that Tony would be at the studio until ten tonight working that _godawful_ stunt, was why they were having this conversation at seven in the morning.  

“Also, I am not a fashion consultant just because I’m gay!”

_“Obviously.”_

Tony put his keys in his pocket with one hand, using the other to pull the phone away from his ear in order to glare suspiciously at it.  

 _“I say it with love,”_ Lee clarified whimsically.  

Tony snorted, but in the end, he couldn’t really deny the truth of the comment - he had recently shown up to a blind date in jeans and a _Darkest Night_ t-shirt, _Darkest Night_ hat, and _Darkest Night_ jacket.  His date had either not shown up at all, or taken one look and decided to pass.  Tony couldn’t really  find it in himself to blame the guy, either way.

“How’s the video game coming?” he asked, opening his car door.  

 _“Really well,”_ Lee answered, sounding pleased, and Tony listened to him talking about the challenges of acting using only his voice as he started the car and backed out of his parking space.

This was new, talking to Lee again.  Tony and Lee had been together for five years, and while it had been Tony’s decision to break up, they had still been hopelessly, mutually in love when he made it.  As a result, there had been almost a year of awkward silence between them, punctuated only with heads-up texts that Tony still felt obligated to send whenever something dangerous and magical was in town - which was distressingly often, but Lee usually texted back only the bare minimum, so they got by.

But when Lee had called a month ago, explaining that someone had tried to cast a spell on him, Tony had found that his own reaction was surprisingly mature.  Apart from how he was still slavishly in love with the man, he had handled it well, solving the problem and wishing Lee the best before getting off the phone.

Apparently, Lee felt the same way, because now they spoke every few days.  

_“How did it go with the phoenixes?  Uh… phoenixi?  Phoenices?”_

“Phoenices?”  On the plus side, over the last month, Tony’d gotten really good at sending an eye-roll through the phone.

 _“Hey, the plural of_ index _is_ indices…”

“Really?”

Tony couldn’t deny it was nice.  Hearing Lee’s brushed-velvet voice always had, and always would, give him a little frisson of pleasure down his spine.  And Lee was a genuinely nice person; it was good to have him as a friend.  

_It’s just that this is pretty much the opposite of ‘getting over him.’_

Every time his phone rang with the _Darkest Night_ theme - Lee having left the studio, he stayed on the old ringtone, while the rest of Tony’s friends were moved to the new ringtone, namely, the theme to their new show, _Making Tracks -_ Tony’s heart went _pitapat,_ in the most pathetic, juvenile way.  And every time they talked, Tony fell just a little bit more back in love with the man.

He should probably start ducking Lee’s calls…

... Except, he really liked hearing his voice.

_“Well, that’s some quality subject-changing there; did it go that badly?”_

“No, it was fine,” Tony sighed.  “Bri wanted to stay home, so it was just me and Henry.”

_“Is working with Henry a plus or a minus, here?”_

“It’s…  No, you know what?  I was going to say it was both, but fuck it; I’m saying a flat minus.”

Given that he was an almost 500-year-old vampire, Henry’s presence had lent a certain undeniable weight to Tony’s arguments with the phoenix counsel, but working with Henry alone was qualitatively different from working with Henry in a group.  When it was just them, the vampire became more possessive, more territorial, and quicker to violence, possibly trusting that, after five years of working together and an equivalent amount spent living together before that, Tony wasn’t going to be scared off.  

It had escalated a couple of situations that didn’t need escalating, and, nowadays, Tony avoided entering into what they were all calling “Batman and Robin” situations.  (Or, in Amy’s case, “Apollo and Midnighter” situations; but really, Amy filed her nails down to points, she could call them whatever she wanted.)

Lee listened quietly as Tony explained.  Well, not the vampire part, which Lee had already learned, but the rest.  And possibly not so much "explained" as "vented".  

“It’s like he’s a trophy wife, and I’m a middle-aged executive getting ready to leave him for a younger model,” Tony complained.  “He’s fractious, irritated all the time.  Picking fights.”

 _“I don’t know if this is how it works for vampires,”_ Lee said thoughtfully when Tony was done. _“But if it’s reminding you of someone whose spouse is leaving, maybe it’s because he thinks you are.  How’s your love life?”_

Tony laughed, bitterly.  “Barren as the fields of… well, someplace barren, okay?  Really, really barren.  Salted the earth, poured battery-acid on it barren.”

Lee was a gentleman; he didn’t laugh aloud. _“So, that’s probably not the source of the issue, then.”_

“Probably not.”  But the point was a good one, and Tony knew Henry was aware of his job-hunting in other cities.  

One of those cities was Lee’s city.  

“How’s yours?” he asked, immediately regretting the question, but too late to take it back.

Lee was silent for a moment, probably because they didn’t _do_ this, asking about each other’s love life like men who were friends, but not lovers.   _We’ll always sort of be lovers,_ Tony thought miserably.  “It’s good,” Lee said finally.  “I’m not dating anyone, but there’s a…”  He stopped.  Started again.  “I have someone…”  And one more time.  “There’s been a lot of unexpected free time together, recently.  It’s very satisfying.”

Tony was pretty sure that meant that Lee was having a lot of sex with a girl who wasn’t interested in long-term; he tried to think of something he could say to that, and failed.  “Good for you?” he said, not sure it was the right thing to say but, at least, not being sarcastic about it..

Silence.

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Tony said miserably.  

 _“I asked first,”_ Lee pointed out. _“We can call it even.”_

The conversation fizzled after that, though, and Tony hung up feeling awkward.  And, he admitted to himself, jealous.  Having crushed on Lee for the better part of a year both before and after their relationship, he was familiar with the feeling of frustrated longing lurking in his chest, but with Lee three thousand miles away, and at least that far into the closet, too, Tony at least had enough sense to acknowledge to himself that it was hopeless.  

He wondered what Lee’s “someone” was like.  He remembered a series of interchangeably leggy blondes and brunettes, and then the photo that had been tacked up on a tabloid’s website six months ago, of Lee and an astonishingly curvy woman, out with two other couples.   _Way to shore up the masculinity, Lee,_ Tony thought angrily - not for the first time since seeing the photo.  He wondered if that was the same woman Lee was seeing now, or if Lee’d moved on to someone else.

 _Whoever he’s with now,_ Tony observed bitterly, pulling into park in the lot at the studio, _she’s probably really feminine._

* * *

Steve Rogers slammed Lee against the wall, pressing into him with the full length of his body.  Given the similarities in their heights, the breadth of Steve’s build, and the fact that neither of them were wearing shirts... It was a lot of body.  

Lee gasped, only a little bit because he’d just had the wind knocked out of him, and licked up Steve’s neck to his ear, drawing a surprised noise out of the other man.  A nip to the lobe got more than a surprised noise: Steve made a bitten-off yelp, pressing Lee further into the wall, and dipped his head, simultaneously giving Lee better access to the ear in question - a universal sign for “yes, please” which caused a surge of desire to course through the brown-haired man - and allowing Steve to run his tongue along Lee’s clavicle.  

Lee gurgled, setting to work with a will, digging his hands into Steve’s short hair to hold him in place for his lips and tongue.  Steve’s noises didn’t stop, confirming that the ear thing was, yes, a thing, instead of a lucky shot, and soon Lee discovered that every time he licked around the shell of the ear, Steve would involuntarily thrust into him.  

It was a little hard to concentrate with Steve’s fingers twisting his nipple-ring, though, and the blond’s other hand was grabbing his ass hard enough to leave bruises - it had happened before, and though never unwelcome at the time, it had required Lee to buy a new, high-coverage bathing suit, which he didn’t appreciate.

Steve bit his shoulder, right in the deltoid, and Lee yelled, then swatted the other man, pretending - badly - to be annoyed.  Steve, who could see right through it, smirked at him.

Lee threw the smirk back, tightening the hand he had in Steve’s hair and pushing down, message unmistakable.  

Steve hit his knees with a groan and started taking Lee’s pants off with his teeth.  Lee reached for his belt to help, because the faster those pants got off, the better, but as soon as he took his hands out of the short golden hair, Steve grabbed his wrists, bringing them to his mouth and kissing each one, softly, on the inside where the skin was sensitive. It was beautiful, a gorgeous man with breathtaking amounts of creamy skin on his knees in front of him, mind-blowingly powerful body performing infinitely gentle touches to one of Lee’s most delicate areas.

Lee sighed.  And thrust into the air, just a little bit, because he _couldn’t_ hold still, not in the face of that.  

Slowly, deliberately, Steve pressed Lee’s wrists back to the wall, message plain:   _stay put._ Then he let go, hands going to Lee’s belt as he mouthed the line of the his hip, tiny fox-like bites trailing down as he pushed both pants and boxers to the floor.  A brief touch to the back of each of Lee’s hands ensured they would stay in place, and then, deliberately, Steve swallowed him down.

Lee didn’t bother to be quiet, moaning loudly at the sweet suction, and Steve made a pleased-sounding hum around him.  Experimentation earlier this week, based on an offhand comment about how long Steve could hold his breath, had told Lee that Steve could stay there, just like this, pressing Lee’s dick into his mouth almost all the way to the base as he swallowed and swallowed, throat working Lee for him.  

It wasn’t going to take that long, though; Lee was primed.  He’d been ready to go this morning when they got in from their run; then Steve and Black Widow had hit the superjet (not actually called that, he remembered) to take out a HYDRA base in Maryland, and Lee had called Tony before he had to be at the studio at 7:30.  Now, Lee was fresh from a conversation with the ex he still loved, and Steve, well…

Steve was still wearing sweaty, ash-covered uniform pants.  

Steve’s hand came to Lee’s hips, pushing gently on him, backwards and forwards.  Buried so far in Steve’s throat, Lee wasn’t moving much, but the eighth of an inch rocking motion was doing it; Lee let his head fall back against the wall and cried out, not even trying to keep it quiet, at each thrust.  

Steve took his hand off Lee’s left hip, sliding it back, pressing firmly behind Lee’s balls, and that was it.  Lee’s cries got sharper, more desperate as he tried - and failed - to thrust against Steve’s left hand, to fuck deeper into Steve’s throat, but Steve read what he needed and pressed forward, going impossibly deeper, letting Lee spill into him.

Lee’s knees buckled, but Steve caught him, laying him out with the carpeting brushing his treasure trail as he pleasantly blacked out for a few minutes.  

When he came out of it, Lee realized that Steve was petting him, one hand playing in his hair, the other rubbing the big muscles of his ass and hamstrings.  It was also, Lee noticed, gently spreading his knees apart.  He moaned, propping himself up on his arms.  “So,” he grinned up at Steve, happy with the entire world for no particular reason.  “Did the mission go badly, or really, _really_ well?”

* * *

“Mr. Foster.”

There are certain things, Tony reflected, that life as a wizard should exempt him from, things you just never expect a wizard to do.  Startling and dropping a jelly doughnut on his crotch, he was sure, was one of those things.

The problem was, CB - also known as _boss_ to those employed at the studio, _Daddy_ to Brianna and her sister, and _Chester Bane_ to everyone else - had the sort of voice that put one in mind of James Earl Jones.  Only deeper.  Combined with a startling ability to move silently when necessary, it meant this was not the first time CB had ever seen Tony drop something on his crotch.

 _At least it wasn’t scalding coffee, this time,_ Tony reflected with a wince.

Luckily, he was kind enough not to mention it, merely raising an eyebrow as he “requested” that Tony join him in his office.

To be fair, he said please.  But even the politest invitation, coming from CB, deserved the scare-quotes around “requested”.  

“Mr. Foster?”

“Right, yeah, coming,” Tony said, shaking his head to clear the woolgathering away as he followed CB down the hallway.

Once the door was locked, and CB was decidedly ensconced in his chair, he turned to Tony.  “Two things.”

Tony nodded.

“First:  How is my daughter’s… education… proceeding?”

“Really well,” Tony told him eagerly.  “To be honest, she picks up new spells really fast -” _-once she puts her mind to it,_ he finished mentally.  Last night had not been the first incident in which Brianna had been less than thoroughly motivated, although Tony was inclined to think this was because the addition of homework had made wizardry less exciting and more irritating to the teen.  “I could probably just copy the WizardPedia over to her, at this point, except that I don’t think she’d actually use it to practice.”

“And if she encountered a challenge she could not face alone?”

Finding the question odd, Tony frowned.  “What, alone as in incommunicado?  Or alone as in physically isolated, but her phone works?  Because I can tell you right now, half of what I do with her is talking her through figuring it out on her own.  So if her phone worked, it wouldn’t be all that different from the current situation.”  

“Hmm.”  

Tony waited for CB to say anything else.

And waited some more.

“Very well.”

 _Maybe something a_ little _more informative than that, CB!_

“Moving on... ”

_Okay, fine; or not._

“...We have previously discussed your own future with this production studio.”

They had.  

Essentially, Tony was stuck.  He’d been promoted as far as he was going to go at CB Productions, because CB was more than slightly wary of putting a wizard, who could at any moment be called away to deal with a magical emergency, in charge of his show.

 _And that’s fair,_ Tony reminded himself.  Especially in the early days, he’d spent a lot of time ditching work to save the world - or at least save the greater Vancouver area - and while that was definitely the right set of priorities, it was not necessarily the same set CB held.  There was a history of waiting to save the world until the episode in question was in the can that spoke eloquently about CB’s thoughts on the matter.

On the other hand, Tony was good at his job - by general consensus, very good - and, in what was a secret from precisely no one, he wanted to direct.  If this were a larger studio, with more turnover in directors, he would have a chance; if he weren’t the only wizard in town, he still might have a chance.  As it was…   _CB Productions does one show, and in the famous words of  Taylor Swift, I am never, ever, ever, getting to direct it._  

_And now that song will be stuck in my head all day…_

Accordingly, at their last discussion, Tony had informed CB that he was making plans to pursue employment in other studios, including - especially - New York and Los Angeles.  

Los Angeles, because that’s where you went if you wanted to film.

And New York, because Tony secretly suspected that Los Angeles might _actually_ have been built over a hellmouth a la Sunnydale, and he was desperately hoping for an alternative.

And, as it happened, he had gotten his wish.  He had three interviews for positions in New York scheduled for two weeks from now: one with a film (a horror using lots of blood which - after five years on a vampire detective series - Tony could honestly say he knew how to handle), one with HBO (who hadn’t identified the project), and one for a live-action, 10-episode run of an unnamed… thing… for Amazon.  

(His contact at Amazon had described it as “romantic comedy through the lens of psychological horror”; Tony figured that could be everything from _Sex in the City_ to torture porn, and was prepared to explain why he’d be great for either.)

“Have you had any responses to your resumes, Mr. Foster?”

“Uh… yeah, actually.”  So Tony told CB about the interviews.  It wasn’t something he’d have done if CB were only his boss, he thought; but five years of working together to defeat the various machinations of evil had made their relationship closer than strictly supervisory.  

Tony might have called them friends… if you could be friends with someone of whom you were pants-wettingly frightened.

“Very well, Mr. Foster.”

Tony was on his feet and halfway out the door before he realized.  “So, wait… you didn’t actually need me for anything related to the _show?”_

CB raised an eyebrow.  “I assume that you are already doing your best for my show.”

“Right,” Tony said, “Good point.”  

Then he left as quickly as he could, hoping to make it to the soundstage before he crammed his foot back in his mouth today.

* * *

 

“So,” Lee managed, pushing against the three long, _wonderful_ fingers stretching him open.  “So you found.  A record.  Of the.  The.   _Jesus,_ Steve!”  The sound from behind him was nonverbal, but definitely smug.  “OftheshooterwhoshotNick oh _God!”_  Lee didn’t know who “Nick” was, but apparently - based on the teeth digging into his ass cheek right now - tracking down his killer made Steve _very_ excited.  “Christ, Steve, come _on!”_

His tone was a mix of exasperated and desperate, but something in it caused Steve to pause, fingers hanging half-in, half-out of Lee.  “This isn’t too much, is it?” he asked voice still carrying the authoritative Captain-tone he’d been using, but picking up an edge of concern.  “I mean, some of this gets a bit, uh.   _Forensic.”_

Lee shot a smile over his shoulder, panting.  “I like it when you talk shop,” he informed Steve.  “It means you trust me.”  His eyes cut away, and then back.  “It’s also kind of hot,” he admitted, grinding backwards.  

“Yeah, I noticed you have a thing about that,” Steve agreed, wiggling his fingers in deep one more time so that the lube made wet sounds, before drawing back and opening his belt.  The navy blue pants were still hanging off his hips as he lined up behind Lee, strong arms reaching around to pull Lee up against his chest.  Steve nuzzled at Lee’s neck, nipping a little.

Lee’s breath rushed out of him, the sigh a blend of desire and exasperation as he wound his hands behind Steve’s head, tangling his fingers in his hair as well as he could.  “What are you waiting for?” he challenged.

He could feel the curve of Steve’s shit-kicking smile on his throat.  “For you to ask about the shooter.”

Lee shuddered.  

“Okay,” he said, wriggling back against the hard length of Steve’s body, and also the hard length of Steve.  “Okay.  So you found - what?  A dispatch order?  An old sniper’s nest?”

Steve began, slowly, to move into him.  “Where they held him,” Steve informed him.  “You know, Natasha said he was a ghost.  She said dozens of assassinations _over the last fifty years_.”  His Natasha voice was eerily accurate, nailing her natural huskiness and sounding distinctly alarming coming this close to Lee’s ear, given the length and girth of what was pushing into him right now.  Steve slid the last of the way, resting against Lee while they both panted.  

“Christ, this guy must be close to _your_ age,” Lee joked, and Steve grabbed his hips again with tight hands.  

Maybe Lee would just give up on swimsuits for the rest of the summer.

Steve started to move.  “And like me,” he pulled back, “they kept him in _ice.”_ He pulled Lee back into him on the word _ice,_ and Lee cried out, hands tightening around Steve’s neck as he licked his lips.  This was going to be good.

Steve wasn’t really a growler; he snapped when he was angry, instead.  But the snap was there in his voice and his hips as he said, “They froze him in between missions, so that he would last longer.”  

Lee moaned, hoping Steve would take it as understanding.  

“There was some kind of an exam chair in there.”

Lee nodded.

“They were doing some kind of medical stuff to him.  He had a metal arm.  Might’ve been maintainance.”  Each short, declarative sentence was the length of one retreat and then plunge.  

“Maintainance,” Lee gasped.  “Metal arm.  Sure.”

“So we found this chamber, and they kept.  Notes.”   _Notes_ was hissed slow into Lee’s ear, drawn out over a full thrust.  “On his missions.  Past deployments.  And this one.”  A slight bracing of Steve’s knees, changing angle.  “You know he shot Natasha, once?”

“Oh, god, Steve.”

“Was that for me, or for the subject matter?”

_“Don’t stop!”_

Given the homicidal exasperation which must have been in Lee’s tone, Steve started back up again.

“He wasn’t at his best when.  When I faced him.  He’d been sick.  The night before.  Brain damaged.  And he still took out Nick.  Outran me.  And caught my shield.”

“Holy shit!”

“Jumped off a building.”

“Nnnnnn!”

“And now he’s a ghost again.  But we know.  How they kept him.  And we’ll find out. The rest.  Break down the tech.  Cryo chamber.  Medical chair.  The arm.  What he can do.  Figure it out.

“And then.  I’m gonna find him.  And bring him in.”

“Yes,” Lee breathed.  “Yes you are, that’s exactly what you’ll do.  Take him down, bring him in.  Make the world - ah! - safer.  And.  Do you know what you’ll do then?”

“What?”  Still not a growl, but the voice in his ear was a low as Lee’d ever heard it.  “What.  Will.  I.  Do.  Then?”

_“You’ll fuck me through the floor again.”_

Keeping one hand on Lee’s hip to keep his ass pinned in place, Steve lifted Lee’s hands from around his neck, shoved him gently towards the ground, and, as Lee rested his weight on his forearms like a sexier version of a plank, proceeded to do just that.

* * *

Tony arrived at home at eleven o’clock at night, too tired even to get the mail.  He unlocked the door, thankful that he hadn’t given in and gotten a larger apartment, despite having been encouraged to do so several times, by everyone he knew.  He also had never traded in his futon (always unfolded) for a real bed, which was a valid reason to leave his sleeping arrangements directly in front of his door.  

On nights like tonight, that felt like good strategy.  Not as far to go.

With that in mind, he entered the apartment, firmly planning to kick off his shoes and fall straight into bed without undressing.  He had the toe of his left foot positioned behind the heel of his right when the smell hit him:  Cherries.  His whole apartment _reeked_ of cherries.   _And also faintly of dextromethorphan_ , he thought, as a sharp blow caught him behind the left ear.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes!  
> 1\. Bucky's voice: I really struggled with what to call Bucky. I mean, *he* sure isn't going to call himself Bucky. My impression from CA:tWS was that his handlers picked "The Winter Soldier" about as much as Tony Stark picked "Iron Man", which is to say, someone else tagged him with it, and they ran with it; so I couldn't really see calling him The Winter Soldier, either, although just "Soldier" has possibilities. "The Asset" is something I've seen a lot in fandom, but I don't recall it being used to him or by him directly. First person appeared like God in the Sky in a Monty Python sketch and said, "Use me, and I shall make your life easier!" So I did.  
> There was another fic, which did the same thing: written primarily in 3rd person, it switches to 1st for Bucky's POV. I liked the effect there, showing that Bucky's mind really isn't like anyone else's, and so I'm borrowing that technique, but I wanted to credit the fic I got it from, which is the hot, funny, insightful, misdemeanor-laden [When All Else Fails](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2178882).  
> The other major influence on my mental voice for Bucky is Owlet's absolutely glorious [Infinite Coffee and Protection Detail](http://archiveofourown.org/series/195689), and if you have not read that, please, do yourself a favor and go read it, right the fuck now.  
> CONFIRM  
> Confirm.  
> Also, both of the above-named fic feature one of my favorite platonic pairings, which is James "Bucky" Barnes & Cats. 
> 
> 2\. Length: This fic may well go more than four chapters; we'll see. 
> 
> 3\. I couldn't find the name of the doctor who is supervising Bucky's mind-wipes, but I did find out that the guy who played one of the techs is the writer who wrote The Winter Soldier arc, so I used his name for the doc. If that's an error, feel free to leave me a comment about it!
> 
> 4\. Bucky's mind: I hope it's clear what's going on here, but if not, leave comments, and I'll put answers in the notes for next chapter.


	2. Puzzle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting this chapter, double horizontal lines indicate a switch either to or from Bucky's POV. Largely because I found it jarring, myself, without them.

* * *

Tony Foster’s taking being kidnapped just really fucking well.  

I mean, yeah, he’s doing all the standard stuff - working at the bonds, struggling, all that - but he’s also looking around, staying alert, trying to figure out what’s going on.  And he’s still got a smart mouth on him, which I can appreciate.  

You know.  Some other time.  In the future.  

Right now, it’s kind of a pain in the ass.  

“I’m just saying,” he finishes up.  “If you really want someone to help you out, _not knocking them out and kidnapping them_ is usually a good move.”

“I needed your attention,” I tell him.  I’m an emotionless assassin with years of training, so I don’t roll my eyes.  

“You know what gets my attention?  Doughnuts!”  Lee’s memories confirm this.  “Cookies!  Eclairs!  Pretty much any form of pastry, I’m yours, I’m on board, no problem!   _Kidnapping not required!”_

I sort through the tray I’ve made up for him, then hold up a plate.  “Toast?” I offer.  

Foster glares at me.  

(It’s possible that I, like Foster, am a smart ass.)

“There’s also soup,” I inform him.  

He glares _harder._  

The moment’s kind of broken when his stomach rumbles, though.

“Yeah, fine,” he mutters, sulky.  “Soup me.”

He seems suspiciously non-wizard-like, but Lee’s memories assure me that this is normal.  I begin spooning “Chunky Beef with Country Vegetables” up, and he opens his mouth obediently.  He chews and swallows, and before I can get another spoonful ready, he asks, “Why?”

I frown, popping the spoon in his mouth, dimly reminded of feeding my baby sister, even though I don’t remember having a baby sister.  “Why what?”

He swallows again.  “Why do you need my help?”

I nod, seriously.  “My brain,” I explain.  He accepts a bite of “beef” and waves his hand in a prompting circle.  “It’s fucked,” I elaborate.

“Uh-huh… How?”

“There was a Chair.”  I chase a carrot around the bowl, and between bites explain to him about my inability to remember anything, including my own name.  I tell him about the things I _know,_ too, like that I can’t lie, and that the wipes hurt, even though I don’t remember them.  And that I fed my baby sister.  

And Steve.

“So you're totally blank?”

“Not _totally_ blank, there's stuff there,  it's just. .. source-less.”  The soup is gone, now, and the toast, too, having  been soaked in the broth the way he likes.  There’s coffee in the other room, and I leave, coming back with some for us both.  I’m trying mine the way Lee likes it, and I’m surprised to discover that we have different taste in this:  Lee's coffee is too bland, not sweet enough, and simultaneously not bitter enough.  

I set the cups down on the nightstand, then huff out a little breath.  “If you give your word you won’t try to magic me or escape, I’ll cut your hands loose,” I offer.  He's the sort of person who’ll keep a promise, once given, and it’ll establish a relationship of trust between the two of us.  

Also, feeding him a mug of coffee just seems like a giant pain in the ass.

Foster automatically flexes his fingers, but it’s most likely an instinctive reaction to my mentioning them.  He winces, and wriggles them harder.  “Yeah, sure,” he agrees, and I grab a knife from beneath the bed and start slicing.  

Foster shakes the blood and feeling back into his hand, cringing, and I remember him - well, Lee Nicholas does, anyway - holding his arm curled to his chest, in so much agony he couldn’t move it, but persevering through without a whimper, anyway.  It’s a strangely double-visoned sensation, knowing that he can be so strong and brave when he needs to be, but hearing him bitch about pins and needles now.  

I wonder if he’s mentally classed me as _not a threat_ because I haven’t hurt him, or if there’s another reason he’s trusting me with his vulnerability.  Or, a third possibility, he may just not care what he shows his enemies.  

(I probe Lee’s memories some more, and they strongly suggest it’s the third.)

He has his fingers wrapped around the mug, smiling sweetly around the first sip of coffee, until I say, “There’s more.”

He lets his head fall back against the headboard, then looks up at me through resigned, half-lidded eyes.  “Of _course_ there is.”

“There’s the things I remember that are true,” I say, apologetic without really knowing why, “And there’s the things I _don’t_ remember, that I know are true anyway.” _I’m getting real tired of saying that.  To Do #1:  Find a better phrase._  “And then there’s the things that I remember even though they happened to someone else.”

He frowns into the mug.  I expect this to be what throws him, to be the thing that makes him decide I really am just a crazy person; amnesia is one thing, mind-melds _(What are mind-melds?)_ another.  He surprises me, though, and I have a sudden flash of intuition that he’s going to do that a lot:  Tony Foster is not what I expect him to be.  He may never be what I expect him to be.

It’s a lot more interesting, honestly.

“Whose memories are they?”

I tell him.  

He spills the coffee.

Oops.

* * *

 

* * *

Lee looked around the old-fashioned bar again, but there was still no sign of Steve.  Or, for that matter, Isaac, Jodie, Darcy, or Clint.  Natasha hadn’t been around since the SHIELD/HYDRA thing, although they kept inviting her anyway via her voicemail, but he’d been hoping at least that one of the others would show in the first half hour.

On cue, his phone chimed:

> **Isaac:** Jodie & I are running late; start without us.

_That text would have more helpful an hour ago,_ Lee thought, frustrated.  It was great - it really was - that Isaac and Jodie had gotten together.  And Lord knew they got little enough time together, given that Isaac was mostly in LA, filming his rom-com.  So Lee was happy for them, completely, it was just that he was being _stood up_ right now, and that _sucked._

He glared at the phone.  “Well, Steve/Clint/Darcy?  What’s your excuse?” he muttered, sullen.

“Do I need one?”

Lee looked up, and broke into a relieved smile.   _“You_ don’t.  The rest of your posse might, though.”  Steve was looking _good,_ leaned against the bar in jeans and one of Isaac’s too-tight shirts.  He had the glasses on, too, which meant that any paparazzi that tried to photograph them would be selling pictures of two co-workers who acted in _THC_ , not Captain America and the guy who played Bucky Barnes.  

It was good to think of these things.

“They playin’ hooky?”

Steve tossed his leather jacket - actually his, but also in-character for Isaac - onto the back of his bar-stool, then hitched his long, dorito-shaped length into it.  He was wearing, Lee noticed, motorcycle boots, with a half-inch heel and pointed toes.  They were definitely not Isaac’s boots, and Lee wondered for a moment where Steve had gotten them.

“They are; all of them.  Isaac just texted me that he and Jodie are going to be late, the others just haven’t shown yet.”

“Hmm.”  Steve smiled into the eyes of the bartender and ordered a gin & tonic, with lime and orange, then turned back to Lee.  “Darcy, Bruce, Tony and I were all working on the data we pulled out of the mission-site yesterday,” he said quietly, leaning into Lee’s personal space just enough that no one would overhear them.  “It’s pretty fascinating stuff; I wouldn’t be surprised if they were still sucked in.”

Lee made of a point of keeping his breathing even.  “Yeah?” he asked, just as quietly; Steve would hear him, he knew.   _Had_ known, ever since the kidnapping incident two months ago; there were few enough things he’d gotten out of that, but a completely certain knowledge of Steve’s limits appeared to be one of them.  He swallowed.  “So what’s Clint’s excuse, then?”

Steve smiled, the bright, trouble-making grin that Lee secretly loved because it was never an act.  “Oh, _Clint?”_ he said, enunciating clearly.   _"He’s_ just irresponsible _.”_

“Fuck you,” came the cheerful voice from _directly behind Lee’s left shoulder,_ and Lee turned and slammed his fist, instinctively, towards the source.  

Clint caught it, of course.  “Much better, kid,” he approved anyway.  “If it had landed, that one would have hurt.”

“Sorry,” Lee said reflexively.  

“Naw, don’t be; that’s exactly the right reaction.”

“I’d rather you have it when you shouldn’t, than the other way around,” Steve agreed wryly.  

“Yeah?  Well, _I’d_ rather you didn’t have it at all in my bar,” came the calmly sharp voice of the bartender.  

“My apologies,” Steve said, voice easy.  “We were just going to head out, anyway, now that our friend’s met up with us.  May we use the back exit?”  He nodded to a door that Lee hadn’t even noticed, set against, indeed, the back wall of the bar.  Then Steve took off the glasses and winked at her, and her eyes widened.

“Not at all, sir - I mean, Captain!  I mean -”

“Thank you,” Steve said, all Captain-voice seriousness, and slid a couple twenties across to her before getting up and swinging the leather jacket over his shoulders.  “Come on,” he said.  “I know a place where we can talk quietly.”  

He led them, sure-footed, to the stairs, and then up to the roof, while Lee texted Isaac to tell them that they were talking business and likely to be boring, anyway, so he and Jodie should just stay in.

“It’s a nice bar,” Clint mentioned, looking around like he was judging the distances to the roofs of other buildings.  (Not far; this one was slightly shorter than the others, and it nestled right up against them.)

“It started out that way, too,” Steve told them.  “I used to work there in the late ‘30’s, before it got sold to the mob.”

“I’d imagine it went downhill after that,” Clint observed.

“Well, yeah,” Steve admitted.  “It passed around the mob a dozen times over the next forty years, then I heard it got seized in the 80’s after a series of health code violations.”  He frowned, thoughtfully.  “Or possibly, ‘Health Code Violations.'  The bar itself stood empty for years; only the apartments got rented.  Then, five years ago, the new owners bought it, and it’s been doing well ever since.”  He paused.  “What?” he asked, tilting his head.

“You used to work here in the 30’s?” Lee grinned at him.  

“The _late_ 30’s; it may even have been 1940.  In fact, I know it was, because it was the year before Pearl Harbor.”  As he was speaking, Steve had wandered easily across the surface of the roof, finding a flat, trap-style door almost aligned with the far wall.  He jimmied the lock and pulled it open, gesturing them inside; exchanging wide-eyed glances, Lee and Clint went.

They found themselves going down a ladder, then around a bend and through a second door, ending in a small, narrow room, barely big enough for a bed.  Lee flicked on the flashlight on his phone, and sure enough, there was an ancient, broken frame with a crumbling, sprung-spring mattress on it, smelling strongly of mildew.  “Secure enough?” Steve grinned at them, ghostly in the blue phone-light.  “I think we can talk here.”

“What _is_ this?” Clint spluttered at him.  

“Hideaway,” Steve answered calmly.  “I knew it had to be here, because the guy who originally ran the bar...  He was going to want something more secure than an apartment.”

“ ‘More secure than an apartment’?  Why, was he mixed up in something?”  

“Well, we met when I stopped someone from trashing the place,” Steve said mildly, “And he didn’t exactly have to look hard to know who in the mob would buy it when he sold.”  

Lee thought about that door to the roof again.  “Yeah…” he said slowly, “but the trap door here opens both ways…”

“Well done,” Steve said, flicking an eyebrow up with a half-smirk that, in the ghastly light, looked almost piratical.  “There used to be a concealed door in this wall -”  He tapped the one behind him, which sounded hollowly.  “- which led to his bedroom, but I checked, and he broke off the mechanism.”  

“And you know there’s no one on the other side of that wall to hear you knocking because…”  Clint prompted.

“Because the person who owns that apartment just kicked us out of her bar,” Steve answered dryly.  “Relax.  We’re safe to talk, here.”

“Cool,” Lee said quietly, bouncing a little on his toes and breathing in the history of the place.   _Although history smells a lot like mildew…_

“If I get Legionnaires, I’m blaming you,” Clint muttered.  

“What’s Legionnaires?” asked Steve.

“So the _shooter,”_ Lee prompted, a week spent filming a medical drama ten years ago being as close as he ever wanted to come to relieving _House, MD._

“Hey, just checking,” Clint interjected.  “Is Lee cleared to know this stuff?  Because, Lee, no offense, but you’re, well…”

“Cleared by who?” asked Steve.  “SHIELD?  I’m finding myself kinda indifferent to their opinion right now.”

“Yeah, but…”  Clint trailed off.  “Well, hell, I guess it all comes down to a judgement call, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, “And Lee’s a friend.  Who is interested, and willing to listen to me complain.  And I trust him.”

Clint thought about it, then shrugged.  “Hell, you read in Wilson, and he is deeply awesome.  Fire away.”

“Right,” Steve said.  He took a deep breath, in and out.  “I’m starting to feel sorry for this Winter Soldier guy,” he started, and then he laid it out:

The cryo chamber.   _("Like me,"_ Steve had said, _"They kept him on ice.")_

The reprogramming notes.  (“Wait, so, literally nothing this guy was told was the truth?  He could have thought his assassinations were sanctioned!”  “His last handler was on the World Security Counsel; there’s a possibility that some of them _were.”)_

The constant references to the shooter as _the Asset_  or _the Soldier_ :  (“If he _has_ a name, they never used it,” Steve admitted, resigned.)

The mentions of an accelerated metabolism, combined with the repeated notes that subject had undergone one or another procedure, with no pain medication ever being listed among the supplies.  (“It looks like a variant of the Serum, again,” Steve said glumly.  “And they used it to just… _abuse_ him.”)

And the Chair.

“God, that thing gives _me_ nightmares, I can’t imagine how the Winter Soldier feels,” Steve concluded.  “I’m shocked he went back to HYDRA at all, except that he didn't have anywhere else to go.  Also..."  He sighed.  "All of their notes emphasize how important it is that he be told he’s doing good, how he should be told he’s making the world a better place.  Not even that he _is_ making the world a better place, just that he should be _told that.”_

“So this poor guy is kept on ice, woken up, reprogrammed, given an evil mission, told it’s vitally important to the fate of the world and that he’ll be a hero; he’s sent out; then he comes back, gets treated without anesthetic or anything else, gets re-brainwashed, and is put back on ice?”  Clint sounded sick.  

Lee felt small, lonely, and cold by this point.  “Jesus,” he said.  

 _“Yes,”_ Steve agreed.  “I finally had to get out of there, but Tony and Bruce are still looking at this stuff.  There’s no video - I guess they were worried it would be discovered, blow his cover - but there’s audio.  His voice sounds so _dead,_ even speaking Russian.  Then, later recordings, he switches to English, and then he _mostly_ sounds dead, but also a little bit hopeful.  Like this is his chance to finally make a difference.”  Steve paused, and Lee watched his tongue, a bizarre puce-purple color in the odd light, sweep across his full lower lip.  “He sounds like a New Yorker, too,” Steve added, voice low, and Lee could tell without looking just how much that meant to Steve.

 _“Jesus,"_ Clint swore.

“Steve,” Lee said, hearing his own voice rough with pity.  “Steve, you’ve got to rescue this guy.”

Steve nodded in the pale light of Lee’s phone.  “I don’t even want to bring him to justice anymore,” he admitted.  “I just want him to get somewhere safe, where we can de-program him and let him be a person again.”  He paused.  “I might buy him a kitten,” he said despondently.

“I might buy him twelve.”  Clint’s face was impossible to see in the dark, but his voice was shaky, and Lee belatedly remembered, with a feeling like a slap, that Clint had been working for Loki when Steve first formed the Avengers.  “Or maybe a dog,” Clint continued.  “I have a dog.  It works for me.”

They sat in the moldy dark for a while, each alone with their thoughts of the captive assassin.  Who was now in the wind, having escaped both justice and his evil handlers after murdering Steve’s friend Nick (whoever that was).  “Of course,” Lee said slowly, “Maybe they didn’t need to mislead him at all.  We aren’t looking at the possibility that he’s just a stone-cold killer.”

“We’ve looked,” Clint said grimly.

“With what Natasha told me about the guy, and, well, how ticked off I was about Nick, that’s the first assumption we made,” Steve explained, sounding guilty, even though that was _ridiculous_ because they’d had _very good reasons_ to make that assumption.  “But that doesn’t work with what we know about him now.”  

“No reason to handle him the way they did if that was the way he was.  They always gave him the reason, Lee."

Lee frowned.  "I'm not sure I understand."

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair.  “Some people fight because they like fighting,” Steve told Lee.  “Like me, a little.”

“Fuck off.  Like Rumlow, is a better example,” Clint said.  “Or, hey!  Like Hulk.”

“Yes!  Yeah.  Hulk just likes smashin’ things,” Steve said.  “But some people fight for a cause.”  He paused.  “Like Isaac.  Or like Bruce, who has to have a reason to become the Hulk.”  He hesitated, then looked directly at Lee, eyes impossibly blue by phone-light.  “Bucky was like that, even more than I was.  I was always ready for a fight, but Bucky avoided them whenever possible.  He only came in when I got my fool head in trouble, or when it was just plain the right thing to do.”  

And then he looked sad, because he’d been talking about Bucky.

_Damnit, we are not doing that tonight!_

“So this guy,” Lee said grimly, dragging them back on subject before anybody _(Steve)_ could wallow, “Is more like Bruce than he is like Hulk?”

“That’s what we have to conclude, yeah” Steve said, shaking himself and sounding a lot less sad.  

“And they kept him out fighting, anyway?”

“Over and over again,” Clint answered him, voice quiet with some strong emotion; without seeing his face, it was impossible to tell which.

"Okay."  Lee grimaced.  “I hope you destroy every last one of his handlers,” he said, and Steve and Hawkeye laughed, direly.  

* * *

 

* * *

When Foster's spilled coffee is cleaned up, I start to explain:  how I had woken up malfunctioning even more than I normally do, how I had never had a migraine before and now never wanted to again.  I tell him about realizing that the foreign memories had to be part of a fall-job, because the guy - Steve - was someone they had to know I would fail against.

“Wait, you went against Captain America and escaped?”

I glare.  “Barely,” I say impatiently.  “And when you say _escape_ , be careful you don’t mean _won,_ pal.  They're not the same thing.”

“And then you… what?  Ditched all of HYDRA, crossed an entire country and also an international border, and hung out for a couple weeks doing surveillance?”

“Yes,” I agree with his fairly obvious summary of my activities.  

“Holy shit!”  His pale blue eyes are wide, which is… confusing.  “You’re a badass!”

I know what a badass is; I suppose, objectively, you _could_ use the word to describe me, but…  “I don’t feel like a badass,” I grumble.  “I feel like a guy with a brain like swiss cheese.”

I drink some more coffee.  

* * *

 

* * *

“So where does the hunt go from here?” Lee asked, leaning back against the wall.

Clint frowned.  “Hard to say,” he explained.  “No contact with the handlers, no clue what made him go off protocol…”

“No idea of _motive_ for the deviation from pattern, which means no idea of direction or destination,” Steve continued glumly.

“No physical description, because they were careful to avoid images.  And he was wearing a mask when he faced Steve, here.”

“We know he can’t get on a standard flight,” Steve said hopelessly, “because that arm will never clear security.  But if he’s enhanced, he can do what I would do if I were going under the radar, which is strap himself into the wheel well and wake up when the plane lands.”

“Jesus!”

“Yeah, it’s a good think I was planning on never taking on Captain America, anyway,” Clint griped, “Because this has given me a whole new level of appreciation for how that’s a dumb idea.”

“Add in cars, trains, freight, and river traffic, and there’s a whole new level of complex,” Steve finished, glum.  “And _that’s_ even assuming he left DC.”

 _“That’s_ the one thing we’re pretty sure of,” Clint said, trying to sound upbeat.  “I can’t think of a single reason for him to stay in town, outside of making sure that all of HYDRA’s records of him are destroyed.  Which they weren’t, so that’s apparently not one of his priorities.”  

Lee frowned at the dim outline of the time-shattered bed.  “If this whole thing hinges on his lack of motive…” he said slowly, “Then shouldn’t your priority be answering that question?”

“Sure,” Clint said disparagingly.

Steve asked, “What do you think Tony, Bruce and Darcy are doing right now?”

Lee chewed his lip, thinking.   “Do you think this has something to do with him being sick the night before he faced you?”

Clint tilted his head, dirty-blond hair catching the phone’s light.  “He was sick?”

“That’s right, they said he’d had some sort of stroke,” Steve remembers.  “There was a hole in the vault floor where the vomit ate into it, which is how we knew about it at first, but Bruce and Darcy also found a bunch of brain scans.”

Hawkeye walked down the length of the tiny room, then stopped, casually leaning across the exit.  “So why does the actor know about that and I don’t?”

Lee blinked at him innocently.  

* * *

 

* * *

“No, there’s no way.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Why can everybody do that except me?  No, seriously, I talked to Lee, like, this morning.”  Foster pauses.  “At this point, probably yesterday morning.  But he definitely hasn’t been dead for weeks.”

“Are you sure?”

“He texted me a selfie with the guy playing Captain America in that show of his, like, three days ago.  Both of them were shirtless, standing in front of a bunch of other shirtless guys, at some race, and he captioned it, _I’ve never understood why you don’t like running._ Yeah, I’m sure.”

I blink, trying to fit this into my recollections of Lee’s life   Also trying to get over the knowledge of what a _selfie_ was.  “You and he have a very odd relationship,” I say.  

“Look, did you bring my phone?” Foster asks, impatient.  

“No.”  Said with all the derision I can muster, because I’m not an _idiot._ Phones have GPS units, you always ditch the phone and any other small electronics, such as watches, radios, or shoes, when performing a kidnapping.

“Damnit!”

“You would call your vampire friend to come eliminate me,” I point out.  “And he’d actually stand a decent chance of doin’ it.”

“Okay, the fact that you a) know about him, and b) only rate his chances at decent, frightens me enormously,” Foster notes.  And he does look frightened, sure, but he doesn’t sound it, and I realize that this is just _banter,_ mere verbal fidgeting while he works his way through the problem.  “Also, I would not call my vampire friend, because he is out of the province for the next month, visiting werewolves out near London.”  

We both pause, heads tilted, mutually reflecting on the weirdness of our lives.  And, in my case, listening to a memory of a song whose source I can’t identify, but whose lyrics are right on point.

“Really?” I ask, and Foster tilts his head at me.  “Your vampire friend is really out of town?”

“For the next month, yes, that’s what I just said,” Foster repeats.

“Then you can go home,” I decide, and start packing a duffle.

“Wait… _What?”_

I pause and glare at Foster, who is a very smart person despite his decision to stick a hunk of metal through his eyebrow, and who at this point is being deliberately obtuse.  “Fitzroy was the only one with a chance of bringing me in.  So long as your friends don’t try to have me arrested, you can go home.”  I glare a little harder for a second, to be sure he gets the point.  “That attempt would fail, so _make sure_ they don’t try to have me arrested.”

Fosters’ eyes are wide.  “No arresting the assassin, right,” he says, and swallows the last of his coffee.

* * *

 

* * *

“That’s fucking bullshit.”  Clint’s voice was flat with anger, and even though he wasn’t wearing the uniform, his back was still drawn taut.  “You trust him more than me?”

The small close room is silent, and Lee could practically hear Steve wince beside him.  “Clint,” Steve said, unhappy and shifting into Captain Voice.  

Interesting that it had been _Steve_ he’d had most of this conversation with…

“Look, I like Lee a lot.”  Clint turned and looked at Lee, meeting his eyes over the bright point of the flashlight app.  “I like you a lot, kid,” he repeated to him directly.

“Thanks.”

“But you’re not an Avenger.”  Clint turned and looked at Steve again.  “And this is definitely Avengers’ business.  This isn’t like Wilson, Steve - who I _also_ like a lot, don’t get me wrong, and those wings are _badass_ , so no problems there - but that guy is ex-Military, read in on high-clearance projects, and Lee is a _civilian.”_

“Not precisely a civilian,” Steve pointed out, crossing his arms.  “Or was all that self-defense training you’ve been giving him just for giggles?”

“Self-defense isn’t the same as being a superhero!”

“Darcy’s been read in,” Lee observed.  He considered resting one hip against the wall, then took a deep breath of moldy air and decided against it.  It'd be a shame to have to burn these pants...  

“Darcy is employed by Stark, and thoroughly bound up in NDA”s,” Clint shot back at him hotly, “And you’re not even sleeping with her anymore, so you’re a long way from being -”  He broke off, then finished lamely, his eyes tracking over to Steve, “- Darcy.”  

There was a moment of building silence, during which Lee breathed carefully in and out, and then:

_“Oh, my god!”_

“I can explain,” Steve started, and Lee _couldn’t_ hear that, he just _couldn’t,_ so he jumped in, instead.

 _“I_ can explain,” he said, and smiled thinly at Hawkeye.  “Steve mentioned it to me yesterday while we were fucking.”

Clint didn’t say anything.

“Your explanation was a lot shorter than mine,” Steve said.

“That was the point,” Lee said tiredly.

Clint didn’t say anything.

“He’s right that I probably shouldn’t be telling you this stuff,” Steve admitted, "Although not for the reason he thinks.  This stuff gets pretty grim."

“You imitated Natasha’s description of the guy while thrusting into me; I pretty much have no regrets.”

Clint shuddered hard - impossible to read his face in the darkness; it was either arousal or horror, or maybe both at once - but still didn’t say anything.

Steve sighed, then spoke still using Captain Voice: “Clint, if you’re going to tell me I’m disgusting and an unfit leader, now would really be -”

“No, wait, what?”  Clint shook his head like he was clearing cobwebs.  He went to sit on the edge of the bed, but it creaked loudly and he stood up again, quickly.  “Aw, no, Steve, that’s not it.  I just… I’m surprised, I guess.  I thought you weren’t even aware gay sex was a thing, much less…”  He shrugged, and came closer to Lee’s little light.  “I mean… Carter?”

“I liked Peggy a lot,” Steve said quietly.  

“Oh.  Okay.”  Clint nodded rapidly, then looked back and forth between them.  “So, you two are…”

Steve looked at Lee.  “Did we ever define it?” he asked, uncertain.

“No?  I mean… not in a catchphrase.”  Lee tilted his head to the side and took a stab at it.  “Monogamous friends with benefits?”

Steve nodded.  “Sure.  But,” he added to Clint, “Long story short, _I trust him._  And he was there when we got in yesterday, and I wanted to talk, so…”

Lee smirked.  “So really, it’s all your fault for having a life outside the Tower?” he threw out, resisting again the temptation to lounge against the wall.

Clint groaned.  “Alright, alright, fine.  That’s actually less ridiculous and more a good point than you think.”  He stretched, and ambled back towards the exit.  “Look, I’m going to get out of here and see if Darcy’s interested in explaining what they’ve found.”  

Just outside the doorway to the hall, he stopped, turned back, and met Steve’s eyes.  “You two should be aware, though, that sooner or later, someone else is going to figure this out.  Sooner or later, the _press_ is going to figure this out, and then you are going to have a _mess._ Find a strategy, and be prepared.”  He paused, then added, “And please don’t have sex on that bed,” he finished, nodding at the exposed springs of the dilapidated mattress.  

Lee snorted.  “I think I’d get tetanus.”

Steve looked thoughtful at it.  “You know,” he said, faux-pensive, “I don’t think I _can_ get tetanus.”

“Aaaaand I'm leaving now!”

* * *

 

* * *

“So, here we are,” Foster says, nerves making his mouth run again.  Seems like a trend, with him.  “Home sweet… efficiency…”

“Efficient ain’t the word I’d use,” I mutter, looking around the tiny place.  It’s hardly the worst I’ve ever been in, though.  Sure, it’s small, but the walls are solid, no rodents or pests - or signs of ‘em - and the furniture all looks solid enough to hold me.  

One bed, though.  

_And it needs a dog.  To Do #2:  Get Foster a dog._

“Soooo…”  

I roll my eyes.   _“What,_ Foster?”

“Look, I realize you’ve got Lee’s memories, and I don’t know what the cutoff is on that, but we weren’t really together for the last year…”

“Year and a half, now,” I point out.

“Right,” Foster agrees hurriedly.  “And I know I only have the one bed, and I guess it’s okay if you share it, but I’m not really…”

I stare at him, deadpan, wondering how long I can keep this up. _Bet you he rambles for at least a minute if I don’t correct him..._

Foster rewinds and tries again.  “I know you know I’m…”

I raise an eyebrow.

Foster lowers both of his.  

 _“Seriously,_ why am I the only one who can’t do that?!”

I scowl.  “Do _what?”_

“The Vulcan thing.”  I pause, and he explains, “With the one eyebrow.”

I snort.  “I’m an elite assassin, able to _literally_ leap off of tall buildings while shooting people from hundreds of yards away, and your problem is with the eyebrow thing?”  Now I can’t stop thinking about my eyebrows, which are both raised incredulously, thanks for checking.  “You know you can train yourself to do it, right?”

“You can?”

“Sure.  How long’ve you spent practicing?”

“I think I have more important things to practice than raising a single eyebrow,” Foster says after a pause, which means _none, no time at all._

“Well, there you go, then.  That’s why you can’t do it.”  I proceed to ignore Foster, curling up on the floor instead, covering myself with a towel for a blanket, my favorite guns handily close (but far enough from Foster that he can’t try to take them), and a pair of jeans and two _Darkest Night_ merch shirts curled up under my head for a pillow.  

(That last one _definitely_ used Lee Nicholas’s knowledge.)  

“Foster.  What is on these pants.”

“Sugar and red food coloring, basically - blood.  It’s fake blood.”

_To Do #3:  Fosters’ laundry._

* * *

In the morning, Foster opens the laptop, grabs some paper, and gets to work, reading through the back ground on memory modification spells and trying out some simple patterns on scratch paper.  He calls a friend (“Amy”, who Lee thinks of as “Scary Amy”) because he needs someone to practice on, and I have, of course, refused.  

Amy shows up with hot lasagna, cold beer, and an ensemble that makes my eyes water.  She’s cheerfully enthusiastic about having her memory modified, shrugging indifferently and flopping on Fosters’ couch/bed.  She pulls out knitting and sets cheerfully to work on a hand-made corset _(What?)_ with matching leg-warmers _(What?!)_ , while Foster tries to make her forget her pattern.  

At the end of the day, I have completed all of Foster’s laundry, the lasagna is gone, Amy has forgotten - and remembered - her knitting pattern fourteen times, and we have discovered that if she sketches random shapes while trying to remember, it works better.  On the other hand, Amy remains stubbornly unaware of the memories which Arra - who Lee remembers as the stubborn old woman who took Foster under her tutelage - had hidden away from her.  

She leaves after slapping Tony in the back of the head (expected), but also after giving me a hug (highly unexpected).  This causes me to simultaneously _baseline -_ my new word for things I know without remembering how, chosen after careful consideration of Lee’s memories - a dozen different things; one hand wants to kill her, the other one wants to grope her, and the indecision causes me to freeze in her arms.  

She pulls away, and I stare at her.  

“Sorry,” she says, “Some people don’t like hugs, I guess.”  Then she rolls her eyes at Tony and leaves.

* * *

The next day, Tony wants to go to work.  

“No.”

“If I call in sick, my boss will want to know why.  If I call in sick, my boss will assume that it’s something threatening the city, because we have an agreement that those are the only things I will call in for.”

“I can threaten the city if you need me to, pal.”

“You’re not fairy, or a troll!  Except for the strictly modern use of troll, which frankly I am starting to suspect.  Not the point!  Jesus, back off!  The point is, you don’t count for sick days!”  

“I can _make_ myself count,” I promise.  Foster looks like he wants to stab me, but:

  1. Fat chance, bucko.
  2. I let him come home, didn't I?
  3. I did all his laundry and _still_ woke up with fake blood in my ear, so he can deal with some frustration.



“Look,” Foster sighs.  “Just… hang out with Amy for the morning.  And Zev, we will definitely introduce you to Zev.  Stick with them, and collect me when I get out of work.  It’ll be late, we’re doing another stunt, but we can order a pizza, it’ll be great.”

It is _not great._

Amy’s desk sits in the center of a whirlwind of chaos.  That is normally a good place for me, but then usually, I’m the _reason_ for the whirlwind.  Here, I’m just a passenger, and I feel buffeted by the noise and the bustle, by the angry expressions of the newest PA (“He won’t last,” Amy tells me with a roll of her eyes) and by the strange, unpleasant smells coming out of the writers’ room.  

Tony and Amy introduce me to people as “Ezio Sterling,” and when I ask why, Foster just shrugs at me.  Lee’s memories suggest they are mocking me, and I find myself grumpy, glaring at everyone who enters the office.  

(Amy thanks me for this, which is confusing.)

Then the angry PA quits before 10:00, and Amy sends me out for Starbucks.  Compared to the chaos of the office, the coffee shop is strangely peaceful, and my mood has improved again by the time I hand Amy her frothy beverage.  She immediately takes the lid off and licks it, eyes twinkling up at me.

Amy is very strange.

After lunch, another strange woman arrives, one who Lee remembers vaguely, but extremely pleasantly.  She has lush, chocolate-colored curls and dark, promising eyes over a sharp mouth, and I have just enough time to realize that she reminds me of Daisy before I realize I don’t know who Daisy is.

I grab a paper and pen, and start sketching random shapes, the way Amy had the day before.  Daisy is…  She was…  

  * _Daisy was a dame.  And a_ _friend of mine._
  * _Daisy had a mole on her butt, tiny black freckles on her nose, and a birthmark under her right breast._
  * _She smelled like Vaseline and face powder, and something green and growing._
  * _She never let her hair down._
  * _She smiled like she wanted to eat me._
  * _She sometimes followed through on it._



Well, alright then.  I set the paper I’ve been sketching on in the trash.

Guess Daisy was an okay sort.  Who’s this dame?

“Amy.”  The stranger woman, Leah, is looking at me like…  

Well.  Like Daisy used to.  

_Oh, really…_

I look down, and then up, smiling into her eyes in a way that feels… familiar.  I don’t have my own words for this, but Lee’s got some, so I drop his Standard Get Laid At A Party phrase #4:  “You know, I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”  

The words don’t come out the same way they do for him - his are all modulated smoothness, mine are all cocky - _heh_ \- and brash - but they appear to be just as effective.  Amy dives for her handset, and Leah goes for my arm.  We’re halfway to the dark hallway full of clothes when Tony appears out of nowhere, tucking his phone away.

“Leah, _no!”_ he shouts.  

_Aw, really, Tony?_

That was _probably_ one of Lee’s thoughts.  

I’m sure it was.

_To Do List #4:  Leah._

Okay, that one was mine.

* * *

That afternoon, disaster strikes:  They count bodies for the stunt, and come up one short.

I am not talking about it.  

Ever.

* * *

We are walking to Tony’s car when I tell him about the Daisy memories which Leah had unlocked.  

“Huh,” he says, getting in on the driver’s side.  “You must be getting some memory back on your own.”

I frown, and try to put my objection into words.  “Do brains… work that way?”

“Well,” says Tony reasonably, “Maybe normal brains don’t.  But you already know you can recover from basically anything, right?  Because they said so when the migraine-thing happened?  So what if your brain just automatically starts recovering after a while?”

I swallow, my mouth simultaneously dry and full of saliva.   _Fear,_ I identify the feeling.  “So it might happen again?” I ask.

“Maybe.”  Tony shrugs, watching where he’s going as he carefully steers the car towards his shitty apartment.  

“Maybe?” I repeat, hoping for more.

“Probably?  I don’t know, Ezio.  You’re different, I’ve never done this before, and it’s a bad combination.  Hopefully?”

Foster drives in silence for a while, taking the turns with the absentminded familiarity of habit.  After five minutes, he say, “Look.  I’m going to New York in two weeks.  Do you want to come with me?  We can go see Lee to reassure you he’s not dead.”

I look out my window at the passing city.  “The Avengers are headquartered in New York,” I say.  

“Great.  We can go see Captain America and you can tell him you’re sorry you _shot at him.”_  Tony gives me a side-eye.  “You _are_ sorry you shot at him, right?”

“I didn’t shoot at him,” I say scornfully.  “If I’d shot at _him_ , he’d be dead.  I shot at someone else, next to him.”

Foster rolls his eyes impressively.  “You _are_ sorry you _shot his friend,_ then, right?” he says.

“Yes,” I say, surprised by how true it is.  You don’t shoot at the good guys.  

And if I know nothing else, I _know -_ with all three kinds of knowledge - that Steve is one of the good guys.

Probably means I’ve been working for the bad guys all this time, so that’ll be fun to make up for.

“Alright, then,” Tony finishes, like that settled _anything._  He mutters, “Jesus, _what is my life?”_

I snort, grumpy all over again.  “Don’t look at me, pal; you’re the one in television.”

I let my gaze unfocus for a minute as I look back out the window at the passing city, lit sideways with orange-red light from the midsummer-evening sun.  

 _I’m trusting Tony Foster a lot,_ I think.  I know he’s a good man, because Lee knew he’s a good man; and I know I’m on the right course, because there are few really solid guideposts in this world, but Captain America is one of them.  So it’s not that I’m doubting, it’s just…

I sigh silently, leaning my forehead against the lukewarm glass of the window.  

I’m out of practice at trust.  

My baseline offers the knowledge that no one can be trusted; the closest I can come is obeying, and that’s for handlers.  

_Well, you fucked that one up, buddy._

Lee’s memories tell me that I can trust Foster, though.  And they tell me that I can trust in Steve.

_I like Lee’s memories better than my baseline…_

“Foster,” I say, blinking.  My voice seems quiet and thin, slipping in under the engine noise and the wind.  “Foster, I need you to...  Could you make me a promise?”

Tony’s hands tense on the wheel, and he looks over, wary.  “What?”

The servos are whirring in my arm.  “If they take me, if they put me in a hole… you have to get me out.  Or the cryo; you have to get me out.”  

I look over at him, and my face feels strange.  My eyes are wide, and my mouth is tight.  “I don’t want to go back,” I make myself explain.  “I can’t.  I can’t be that guy anymore.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, but also like he knows what I'm asking.  “Why me?” he asks.  

I shrug.  “Lee trusts you.  You’re a good person.”  I feel my mouth do a strange thing, which feels like a smile and a pout all at once.  “You’ll make sure.”

Foster’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel; whatever he has seen in my face has convinced him.

_Wizards see what’s there._

Whatever _that_ is.  

“Yeah, okay,” he vows.  “I won’t let them put you back where you were.  That’s a promise.”  

I nod, and let my head fall back against the window.

Then I see the sign.

My metal arm reaches out, grabbing Foster’s right.  “Pull in here,” I order.

“Gah!”  The car fishtails a little with Fosters’ shock, but he pulls in eventually, parallel parking in a space only half a block from our target.  Pleased, I exit the car, and he comes around front, checking the meter’s expiration time before joining me on the sidewalk.  “Alright, what is it?” he asks.

I point.

“What.”

“Come on,” I say, and set off at a brisk pace.  After a moment, he follows.  

“Uh, ‘Ezio’,” he starts, and I can hear the air-quotes.  “What, uh…”  He never actually manages to get the question out, as our passage into the store immediately surrounds us with a chorus of noise:  birds screeching - that macaw by the back wall has got to go - dogs barking, and a trio of small children running manically up and down the aisles.  The cats are mostly quiet, thank goodness, but there are few high-pitched mews from the kittens.  Even the fishtanks have an engine-noise and bubbling sounds.  

“Can I help you?” a harassed-looking young woman in a blue apron asks us, and I can see the mother of the small children looking put out behind her.  We are officially the young woman’s - Aisha’s, apparently, judging by the name tag - distraction tactic.  

I can work with that.

“He needs a dog,” I inform Aisha.

“WHAT?”  Aisha, I, Entitled Mom, and all three small children look at Foster.  He closes his eyes in apparent prayer for a moment - although, Lee assures me, Foster is anything but devout - then opens them again.  “Ezio,” he says, thankfully without air-quotes this time, “You know I don’t have room for a dog.”

“Doesn’t take much, as long as you walk it regularly.”  Has Foster never owned a dog before?  Probably not, actually.  Well, the learning curve ain't bad.

“‘Ezio’,” Foster grates, voice even more pissed off now, “I don’t have a regular schedule.  I can’t commit to walking a dog regularly.”  

“Buddy, I have accomplished everything else on my To Do list; gettin’ you a dog is the last thing.”

Aisha is looking apologetic at me now.  “You know,” she tells me, “Dogs just aren’t the right pet for everyone.”

“And besides,” Foster finishes meanly, “I _barely_ have room for my _current_ pet.”  

My mouth is open to point out that Foster doesn’t _have_ a pet, when I take his meaning.

Low blow, Foster.

But fine.  If we’re going to be _assholes_ about it.  I am the _king_ of assholes, buddy.  I used to hang out with _Steve Rogers._

(I used to _hang out_ with Rogers?   _What?)_

I push the thought aside for later, and turn to Aisha.  Voice deliberately mischievous (thank you, Lee, for knowing the effect that has), I ask, “What about a kitten?”

* * *

“I don’t _believe_ this,” Foster fumes, glaring at the kitten climbing in my lap.  Her name is Purza, which I pulled from Lee’s memories, which list it as the name of the cat in one of the thousands of books he has read.  Purza’s coat is a glossy tuxedo; she has been weaned for only three weeks, and she currently weighs only 2.4 pounds, but she has already mastered a look of disdain whenever Foster reaches for her.

I feel smug just _looking_ at her.

“You don’t even _have_ an apartment of your own, and now you’re taking in a cat?”

 _I had an apartment,_  I think, remembering the one-bedroom I camped in for my first week in Vancouver. _My name ain’t on the lease, but I wasn’t kidnapping you to a hotel room, like some kind of amateur._

And besides, the cat wasn’t for _me,_ anyway.

“Not my fault you refused to sign the paperwork, buddy.”

“What the hell _was_ that?  I am _completely certain_ that kittens are not part of _Williams Williams’s Complete Guide to Assassinations!”_

That is not a real book.  

“Says you,” I retort, the words feeling broad and _right_ in my mouth.  “Killed a guy in ‘74 with a Norwegian Forest Cat.”

Foster gives me an _extremely_ wary look.  

“They shed a lot,” I explain.  “He was allergic.”  

Foster isn’t quite convinced, I can tell.  That’s okay; I can keep going.  “Then I threw the cat at his head, and he was so blinded by watery eyes that he tripped and fell down the stairs.”  I pause thoughtfully, stroking my flesh hand down Purza’s back.  “I tried to take the cat back to base, but my extraction team told me they would just put it down.  I think the target’s daughter adopted it, instead.  Said it was the only love she’d ever gotten from her father.”

“Holy shit.”  Foster focuses on the road ahead of him, wide-eyed, not looking at me _or_ Purza.

Success.  Purza purrs triumphantly from my shoulder.

Then he frowns.  “Wait a minute.  I thought you got wiped after all your missions.  How do you remember this one?”

He looks up in time to catch the sly smirk spreading across my face, the one that feels wide and _right._

_“God damn it, Ezio!”_

No air quotes there, either.  I _knew_ Foster needed a pet.

* * *

 

* * *

“Lee.”  

Lee pretended to be asleep.  It probably wasn’t convincing, since he was still blowing like a derby-winning horse, but hey, he was an actor.  He could make it work.

“Lee.  Lee!”  

Steve poked him in the arm.  

Alright, he couldn’t make it work.

“Whaaaat?” Lee asked, cracking an eye.  “Nothing complicated, I just shot my brains all over you.”

“Oh, is that what that was?” Steve mused, swiping at the pearly mess on his chest.  Then he _dragged a finger_ through that mess and _licked it._

“Jesus,” Lee muttered, staring at him with both eyes wide, now.   _“Definitely_ nothing requiring brains.”

Steve laughed, and kissed him.  He tasted like cum, but it was still pretty great.  

“We can wait until morning,” he said.  “Go to sleep.”  He sounded… disappointed?

Lee blinked at him, then glanced down.

 _Supersoldier serum is ruining my life,_ Lee thought to himself happily, stretching his toes back and forth.  “How is that possible?” Lee asked aloud, eyebrows knitting.  “You _just came_ , barely _three minutes_ ago.” 

“Two and a half, actually,” Steve admitted.  

“Christ, Steve.”

“It’s fine.”  Steve smiled, a little embarrassed.  “Get some sleep, we can talk when we wake up.”

“Talk, yes.  In the morning.  You said that.”  Lee rolled onto his knees and stretched his arms over his head, feeling the pull in the long muscles of his shoulders and back.  Then he pulled back, wriggling until his head flopped onto Steve’s stomach, just below the impressively splashed puddle the two of them had made on his pecs.  He rocked back and forth, inching his head down far enough to take Steve’s dick in his mouth.  

Steve sighed happily, winding a hand in Lee’s hair as Lee mouthed contentedly at the head of his penis.  Lee was too tired - okay, let’s be frank, too completely, happily _exhausted_ \- to put much effort into it, but then, Steve didn’t seem to need much from him.  He kept his mouth firm, but didn’t move much, mostly licking at the head and occasionally bobbing up, while Steve made pleased little whines above him and petted his head.  

Steve only let it go a couple minutes before taking himself in hand, moving with faster, more purposeful strokes.  “You should aim for the puddle,” Lee said sleepily, leaning back to let the action pass in front of his nose.  He stuck his tongue out, and Steve brushed across it with a gasp.  “Make it three for three.”

“I think it’s messy enough,” Steve pointed out, shortening his strokes.  

“I hear it’s a great moisturizer,” Lee said seriously, and Steve pulled his head back by the grip in his hair long enough to shoot across Lee’s throat.

“Oh good,” he said when he could talk again.  “We’ll keep you nice and soft, then.”  

Then he manhandled Lee up next to him and licked his cheek.  “Groooosss,” Lee whined.  

Steve licked him again.  “Want me to clean you up?” he offered, voice full of the sort of fake-innocence that always, _always_ spelled trouble.  

Lee was starting to feel a lot less sleepy.  He eyed Steve sideways, then said, “Yes…” in his “Jasmine getting on the carpet” voice, and Steve set to with… well, with way too much energy for a man who’d just come twice, that’s for sure.  

The semen was all over his neck and upper chest, and Steve took his time about it, squirreling his tongue into the hollow of the collar-bone, brushing it flat across Lee’s trachea, and drawing it through the space between Lee’s pecs (not as impressive as Steve’s, but still pretty great, thank you very much.)

At some point, he reached out and started playing with the nipple ring, too, which was always.  Um.  

_Distracting._

By the time he finished, Lee was panting and semi-erect.  Steve took his hand off the nipple ring - good, because it was most of the way to “too sensitive” by now - and grabbed Lee’s hair again, instead, leaning over and kissing him deeply.

He tasted a lot more like cum than he had twenty minutes ago, and Lee gave a little whimper as he sucked on Steve’s tongue.  Steve swept through his mouth over and over again, frotting a little against Lee’s hip because of _course_ he was ready to go for the _third time in half an hour, Jesus, Steve -_

But by this point, Lee was pretty ready to go again, too, so he levered himself up onto an elbow and got into Steve’s space a little bit.  Steve made a pleased little hum - definitely non-verbal, because verbal would have required the use of his tongue, which was _busy_ right now - and worked a leg under Lee’s, then judo’d him on top of himself, breaking the kiss.  

Lee laughed at him, settling into the space Steve’d made between his legs with a little wiggle.  “What, again?” he asked, working his hand down between them.

Steve just grinned dopily at him and tossed him the lube.

“Yeah, okay,” Lee smiled, shoving one muscular leg out of his way towards Steve’s chest and popping the top on the little bottle.  “You know I’m not going to go as fast here, right?  I mean, this is my second one.  It’s going to take me a while.”

“Lee.”  Steve raised his brows lasciviously, and Lee laughed at the effect, swiping one shiny hand across Steve’s dick before slicking his own.  “I’m counting on it.”

* * *

By midnight, Steve and Lee had a 4:2 score going, and Lee was frankly damned proud of himself.  Well, of both of them, really.  He could share the credit; for some reason, he was feeling very generous.

At six-thirty the next morning, Steve’s attempt to take it to 5:3 was significantly less amusing.  

“Steeeeve,” Lee groaned as the blond sucked his nipple ring between his teeth, _again._ “Steve, I have to get to work by - hey! - by eight.”

“Call in sick?”

“Seriously?!”

Steve stopped what he was doing, crossing his arms over Lee’s chest - which, okay, _biceps, Jesus -_ and resting his chin on them.  “I only have a couple more days,” Steve said.  

Lee braced himself on his elbows, and paid attention, wishing briefly he’d set the coffee machine before bed last night.  “What?”

“It’s Tuesday; tomorrow, I head out to clear out a HYDRA safehouse or five, either trying to bring in the Winter Soldier or just to clear them out, depending on our intel.  I might, _possibly,_ be back by Sunday - at the earliest.”  Steve broke eye contact, looking at the digital alarm clock perched on a shelf across the room.  “And next Tuesday is our Reassessment day.”

It took Lee a moment to remember what Reassessment day was.  “Already?”

“Yeah,” Steve said hoarse.  “And honestly, I’m not sure which way we’re going to jump.”  He looked back at Lee.  “Are you?”

Lee remembered the look on Clint’s face on Saturday, when he’d figured it out.  Remembered the tension in Steve’s voice.  Remembered the clench in his own chest.  “No,” he admitted.  He sighed.  “I’ll tell them I’ve got a cold,” he said, then smiled at Steve.  It was a pretty good smile; one of his better efforts.  He also pulled out his best Marilyn:  “Hey baby, wanna give me a sore throat?”

* * *

Lee’s boss gave him the rest of the week, he sounded so rough.  

* * *

>   
>  **The Ex:**  Hey, I’m in town next Monday!  Want to get lunch?
> 
> **Lee:** In town like in my town?  New York?
> 
> **The Ex:** Yes
> 
> **Lee:** Sure  
>  **Lee:** Why?  
>  **Lee:** Why in New York, I mean, not why lunch
> 
> **The Ex:**  Job interviews.  
> 
> **Lee:**!!!!!
> 
> **The Ex:** Yeah

* * *

>   
>    **Lee:**  Hey, my show comes out Sunday!  You gonna watch it?
> 
> **The Ex:** YES  
>  **The Ex:** Zev is having a party  
>  **The Ex:** Which reminds me  
>  **The Ex:** Is there a drinking game yet?
> 
> **Lee:** Not that I know of  
>  **Lee:** Please make one up, though.  I will also be at a party, where there will be booze
> 
> **The Ex:** Show folks?
> 
> **Lee:**  Kind of  
>  **Lee:**  I mean, I did meet Captain America through the show
> 
> **The Ex:** NO  
>  **The Ex:**  You are partying with the Avengers  
>  **The Ex:** For the debut of your new show  
>  **The Ex:** Which you star in  
>  **The Ex:** What is your life!
> 
> **Lee:** You know why this is happening  
>  **Lee:** You’ve seen my abs
> 
> **The Ex:**  *eyeroll emoji*
> 
> **Lee:**  There will also be some actual show folks there  
>  **Lee:**  Isaac and Jodie?
> 
> **The Ex:** Hah, ShirtlessRunning!Cap and the APOC of doom!  
>  **The Ex:** Right?
> 
> **Lee:**  Right :)

* * *

> **  
> **The Ex:  Hey, I might have a friend with me?  
>  **The Ex:** At lunch, I mean
> 
> **Lee:** …  
>  **Lee:  
>  ****Lee:**  Friend, or “friend”?
> 
> **The Ex:** Well, not that second one.  
>  **The Ex:** I thought we’d already discussed the barrenness of my sex life?  
>  **The Ex:** Anyway  
>  **The Ex:** …  
>  **The Ex:** I don’t know what the word is for  
>  **The Ex:** Guy who kidnapped me because he’s pathetic and needs my help  
>  **The Ex:** but that’s what this guy is.  
>  **The Ex:** He’s kind of a ninja?  
>  **The Ex:** Social skills are not his thing
> 
> **Lee:** …  
>  **Lee:  
>  ****Lee** :  ...
> 
> **The Ex:** did you just type out a dot dot dot?
> 
> **Lee:**  They’re called ellipses, asshole
> 
> **The Ex:** What does that even mean?
> 
> **Lee:** It means I’m waiting for you to tell me you’re safe
> 
> **The Ex:** It’s okay.  
>  **The Ex:** He just needed help  
>  **The Ex:** He’s kind of relearning how to trust
> 
> **Lee:**  ...
> 
> **The Ex:** He got me a cat?
> 
> **Lee:**  What
> 
> **The Ex:**  [image file attached:  tony_sleeping_with.jpg]

* * *

> **  
> Lee:**  Are we good to go?
> 
> **Darcy Lewis:** Yus!  
>  **Darcy Lewis:** We will have the most glorious feast to celebrate the commencement of this epic saga!
> 
> **Lee:**  Was that an impression, or did Thor actually steal your phone?
> 
> **Darcy Lewis:** Collaboration, so, both.
> 
> **Lee:**  Nice

* * *

> **  
> Darcy Lewis:** Pepper is catering the party.  It will officially be awesome.
> 
> **Lee:**  It would have been anyway; we’ll be there 

* * *

> **  
> Lee:**  I will be in makeup vocals from 7 in the morning to 8 at night on Saturday
> 
> **Lee:**  I did not make good life decisions this week
> 
> **Darcy Lewis:**  I thought you were sick?
> 
> **Lee:**  So did my boss  
>  **Lee:**  I only asked for a day, but he told me not to come in before Friday  :(  
>  **Lee:**  And now I have makeups
> 
> **Darcy Lewis:**  Sucks to be you, slacker.  Don’t be late on Sunday
> 
> **Lee:**  What kind of loser is late to his own party?
> 
> **Darcy Lewis:** Tony Stark, duh 

* * *

Zev’s taste in husbands, much like his taste in music, was unparalleled:  Raphael, a successful architect at a firm downtown, kept ridiculous hours, but was otherwise apparently perfect.

(And, as Zev had pointed out, “I don’t have a whole lot of room for stone-throwing on the subject of late nights.”  

“If late nights look like Raph in a suit, I’d do more than put up with them,” Tony had replied.  Three years later, he still considered it a cogent argument.)

Raph and Zev had met during the Salamander Incident of 2010, and things had progressed smoothly, if exceedingly rapidly.  They’d been married since 2011, and appeared to be deliriously happy.  Their house - Raph’s design, of course - was _gorgeous,_ all hardwood floors and wide open spaces, with almost no doors in the entire building.

So naturally, when Zev had volunteered to host the viewing party, everyone had agreed.  

Tony showed up first, arriving with beer and cheese, as instructed, and Ezio, about whom no instructions had been issued either for or against.  He made Ezio carry the beer, though, so Zev welcomed him with open arms.  

Amy and Jack appeared shortly thereafter, bearing meatballs and a gallon of milk (Amy) and dessert bars (Jack).    

“I am impressed,” Tony admitted.  “How many is that?”

“Only five,” Jack said, flapping a hand at him.  “The bars are easy, it’s the cookies that are a pain in the ass.”

“You brought five pans of brownies,” Zev said blankly.  “Please, come back to my house any time.”

“Well, they’re not all brownies.  Those are blondies, and these are seven layer bars…”

“What are these fruity ones?” asked Tony.

“Cherry and black walnut, with dark chocolate lacing.”

“Damn,” moaned Raph around a mouthful of brownie.  Tony knew from experience that Jack’s brownies had chocolate chips in them, too, making them extra fudgey.  Amy started pouring glasses of milk.  “Jack.  Are you sure you’re not gay?  Because _I_ might be gay for these brownies right now.”

“Pretty sure,” Jack smirked.  “Amy checked this morning.”

“Ew, gross,” Tony complained.  He took a couple extra of the cherry-chocolate bars anyway, though.

Mildred, a coworker of Raph’s and the head of the local coven, arrived next.  Raph _probably_ knew the truth about their acquaintance with the metal-armed assassin (Tony had told Zev), but Mildred certainly did not, so Amy had suspicious amounts of fun introducing him as “Ezio Sterling, our newest PA”.

Leah showed up, as well as Sanjiv (although thankfully, not together).  Tina, the AD, had come alone with three bottles of wine.  Clara and Sarah, an adorable (if rhyming) dwarf couple from Raph’s work, came, and Daniel, smug about his recent abundant workload and trying hard to recruit Ezio into the glorious life of stuntwork.  (Ezio didn’t look interested, but also didn’t kick Daniel in the face, so Tony was taking the win.)  Geetha Danvers and her husband had hired a sitter for the kids, and arrived with a batch of cheesy-twisted breadsticks that were gone in about three minutes flat.

The living room was already set up with coffee tables, cushions, and chairs, and the TV was on and tuned to the proper channel.  Zev offered to send a picture to Lee, and after substantial jostling, Ezio rolled his eyes and volunteered to take it.  

Afterwards, he tossed the phone back, and Tony grabbed it out of the air.  (Okay, bobbled it, but he didn’t break it, that’s what mattered.)  The picture showed a room full of happy people, cuddled up in each other’s personal space, like a community.  

Tony felt a small smile pulling at his lips as he forwarded the image to Lee.  

* * *

Lee’s phone chimed, distracting him, briefly, from his nerves, and when he popped open the sent image, it revealed a room full of familiar faces.  There was Raph, smoulderingly sexy even in a button-down and jeans; there was Zev, happily curled around him.  Amy leaned into Jack’s arm, Jack had Clara and Sarah on his other side.  

Tony sat on one end of the couch, a space just large enough for person beside him.  If they were friendly.

Lee knew for a fact that Tony wasn’t seeing anyone in that image… but someone had to have taken the picture.

 _Jealousy is stupid,_ Lee reminded himself, looking at Tony’s happy face.   _You’re the one who moved to another country, you’re the one who wouldn’t come out; jealousy is stupid._

It didn’t help much.

“Ohmigod, they’re cute!” Jodie squeaked, and Lee startled.  “Who are they, Lee, your friends from Canada?”

Lee gave himself a little mental shake.  “Yeah,” he said, “From CB productions, mostly.”

“Picture from home?  Send one back,” said Stark from the other couch.  “Make it a video.  JARVIS?  Take a video, send it to Lee’s friend.”

“Oh, no, you really...” Lee started, but Tony Stark wasn’t really someone you could cut off.

Jodie came around the front of the bottom-bunk couch and settled on Isaac’s lap, curling her feet over into Colonel Rhodes’ lap; Kate, meanwhile, tossed her own legs there from the other side.  (Colorel Rhodes looked considerably startled, but not offended, at having a lap full of barely-legal legs, and Lee decided not to say anything.)  

Darcy dropped herself into Lee’s lap, which was never a bad thing, and Lee secured her in place with his left arm around her waist; Pepper, Tony, and Bruce shuffled around on the upper-bunk couch; Jane and Thor were back on the ground for some reason - there was plenty of room next to Lee - but they looked pretty happy about it, so Darcy just tossed them a pillow.  

“Is everybody ready?” Pepper asked, a laugh in her voice.

“For what?” asked Steve, arriving in the doorway, looking…

Two portions of Lee vied to finish that sentence, one filling in _delicious,_ the other winning out with _beat to shit._ Steve looked honestly exhausted, shoulders slumping as he slung a pack with his shield on the outside down by the back of the couch.  He smiled at Lee - which, considering they were on the down low, was pretty much a “sailor bending a nurse backwards over his arm” level of welcome for them - then went straight to the food, loading up a plate.  

“Steve!  You made it!”  Lee couldn’t keep the genuine pleasure out of his voice, but that was okay; others around him were echoing the sentiment.

“And what are we?” Clint asked, following Natasha and the Falcon into the room.  “Chopped liver?”

“Hey, Chopped Liver, great to have you back,” Darcy said as Clint tossed his bow and quiver, as well as an overnight bag, next to Steve’s shield.  Natasha pushed Clint lightly towards the recliner no one used, then went for food; Steve came around and dropped next to Lee.  Darcy obligingly lifted her legs out of the way, but moved them back when Steve had settled, and Steve rested his plate on her shins.  The Falcon - Sam Wilson, whom Lee had not actually met yet despite having heard quite a lot - settled in next to Steve, offering Lee his hand.

“Natalie, hurry up, we’re taking documentary video,” Tony called from his bunk-couch, and, not for the first time, Lee suspected that he was treating it like a throne.  

“Taking video in 3, 2, 1…” Intoned JARVIS, and Wilson said, “Wait, where’s the camera?” just in time to have them all laughing and arguing over the answer. 

* * *

“That is not fair,” Amy said bitterly.  

“That is deeply awesome,” corrected Tony, grinning at his phone like an idiot.  

“Gonna have to side with Tony on this one,” Sanjiv said.  “That was a _beautiful_ woman on Lee’s lap, I'm going with _awesome_ for her alone.”  

“That entire couch is full of beautiful people,” agreed Zev.  He frowned.  “In fact, I think that entire _room_ was beautiful.”

“Ours is better,” Raph said, kissing Zev’s head.

“And now,” the announcer intoned, _“An HBO original series:  The Howling Commandos.”_

* * *

It was really a good opening sequence, and Tony would be sad, later, that he wasn’t able to spend more time appreciating it.  

The theme song started with a snare drum, and then progressed at moderate pace with, primarily, acoustic guitar and pipes.  Zev sat up ten seconds into it, saying, “Wait, is this…?”  Then the soloist, a husky-voiced woman who sounded like she normally sang country, began, “Out there, we walked quite friendly up to death,” and he flailed and made squeaking noises to Raph, who laughed at him.  

The visuals were put together with CG, but extremely well-done.  It started with a photograph of a battlefield, presumably one taken during World War II, and zoomed in.  Then there came another, and then a now-famous image of the apparatus used in Project: Rebirth, abandoned in an empty lab after everyone had left.  Then a picture of the original Steve Rogers, frighteningly emaciated and talking with an older man who looked like Radek Zelenka, followed by another battlefield.  

When _that_ image faded, though, it was replaced with one of Colonel Phillips discussing something with Agent Carter; again, it was a famous historical image, and clearly depicted the original people.  But then the picture colorized, Philips’ eyes going somehow steelier, Carter’s neutral regard gaining the challenging edge of a quirked brow, and the credits for Joseph Bourne and Jupiter Sue Lee flashed beside them.  

“Okay, that’s nice,” Tina admitted, “That is a sharp way to do that.”  

 _“Benjamin Britten!”_ Zev spluttered, still apparently stuck on the theme music.  

Steve Rogers appeared on screen, in a black and white photo of him smiling at someone just off camera, and came to life as portrayed by Isaac Greeley.  

“That is a good-looking man,” Mildred sighed.

 _We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe,_ sang the contralto.

Then a photo of Bucky Barnes showed up on screen, and Tony looked to his right to see the same face staring, wide-eyed, at the screen.

* * *

 

* * *

Foster grabs my arm.  “Don’t make a scene,” he whispers in my ear.  “Don’t say anything, don’t do anything.  We’ll talk afterwards, but for now, just enjoy the show.”  

I look at him like he’s crazy, which he frankly deserves.  

That is _my fucking face_ on that screen, except it just morphed into Lee Nicholas’s, and I knew we were both handsome devils, but I never connected the triangle to get from _he looks like me_ and _he looks like Barnes_ to the conclusion that was now staring me in the face.

A memory bubbles up, definitely one of Lee’s: _Nate Gauss shakes his head.  “Are you sure he even died after the_ train?” _Gauss asks, and Steve Rogers looks like he’s going to puke, shoulders by his ears, spine hunching, lip pouting outwards.  “I asked Stark,” he says, his voice harsh and deeper than usual, and totally incontrovertible._

I give a mental snort; seems unfair.   _Damn, Stark, what’d I ever do to you?_

So I'm thinking it seems pretty unreasonable for Foster to tell me to act like it’s nothing.

Then I look around the room, though, and I realize he’s right:  most of these people haven’t noticed a thing.  They’re looking at the screen, talking about how hot Gabe Jones and/or his actor is (kinda fair), or babbling about the musical selection, or burying their nose in their wine glass (that lady might have a problem).  

Amy knows, though; she’s looking right at me.  She smacks Jack’s arm, and he looks over, too, his eyes widening.  Carefully, Jack edges so that no one else can see what he’s doing, then brings his first two fingers of his right hand in front of his mouth like a rabbit's teeth, shooting me a questioning look.  

I have _no_ idea what that means.

He makes the rabbit-tooth gesture again, asking more fiercely.

Cautiously, I curl my flesh hand into a fist, raising the first two digits at an angle to represent ears, then hippity-hop it across my body with a questioning eyebrow.

Judging by the _what the fuck_ look he’s giving me, that was not what he was asking.

I give him a baffled shrug and mouth, “Later.”

Foster reaches beside him, drawing up his phone, and I casually lay my metal hand on his wrist.  “Don’t,” I breath.

He pauses.  

“If I don’t text him during this, he’ll think something’s wrong,” Foster tells me sotto voce.  

“Say _nothing_ about me,” I order him, voice just as quiet, but just as serious.

Foster tenses, but nods, and I cautiously draw my hand back.

Jack is glaring at me, _hard,_ but my own glare is pretty impressive, and he looks away first.

The woman sings, “When each proud fighter brags, he wars on _Death,_ for _lives;_ not _men,_ for _flags,”_ and we all settle back, warily, to watch the show.

* * *

 

* * *

 “Wait, did they seriously cast they guys who did the _Fifteen Minutes of Anything_ comedy specials as _Zola and Schmidt?”_

“I thought that was genius,” Amy said, “I mean, they’ve already got great rapport, right?”

Tony tilted his head to the side.  “They are working pretty well together.  I suddenly really want their DVD commentary.”

Geetha Danvers did a spit-take.

* * *

 “That stunt took for _ever,”_ Lee groaned.  

“Ohmigod, _that stunt,”_ Jodie sneered.   _“Never again.”_

* * *

Daniel squinted at the screen.  “Is that a camera in the corner?”

“Where?”

“Upper right.”

Sanjiv leaned forward.  “It _is!”_

“Take a drink,” Tina ordered.

“That’s in the drinking game?” Mildred asked.

“No, but it’s sloppy.  On a show with this kind of budget, that makes me  _want_ to drink.”

* * *

“Where _are_ you in this thing?”

“He was sketching, earlier,” Steve pointed out.

“Yeah, but that was like… Half an hour ago,” Tony said.

"Not everyone has your lack of attention span," Colonel Rhodes said.

“It’s an ensemble production,” Isaac said piously.  “We tried to make sure the cast got even screen time - Oh, look, here I come!”

* * *

“I don’t think he’s technically shirtless,” Zev pointed out.  “It’s just all opened at the front, he’s still wearing it.”

“Still counts,” Clara decided.  “Take a drink.”

* * *

“Oh, damn,” Amy breathed.  “More episodes!  More!  Now!  I need them!”

“It was good,” Tony said, feeling the smile spreading across his cheeks.  “It was really well-done.”

“Go Lee,” Zev said, smiling softly.  

“Yeah.”  Tony took out his phone, and feeling a little guilty for the deception, pretended to be texting Lee.  He angled the phone so that Ezio - Bucky, apparently - could see it, though, and typed out, _WAIT._

Bucky nodded, once, tense.

Tony entered in the address of a local diner, then sent it to Amy’s phone.  As Sarah and Clara offered to help clean up, he and Ezio - Bucky - headed for the car.

* * *

“Okay, so thing number one:  thank you for not killing everybody and running off into the night, that was very thoughtful, thank you.”

Bucky looked at him scathingly, and Tony took a deep breath.  

“Thing number two:  I know how you got Lee’s memories.”  

Bucky’s already been looking at him, but now his gaze hardened and sharpened.  

“How,” he asked.

“I’ll go over it at the diner, but basically…  Someone cast a spell on Lee, to put all of your memories in his head.”

“The red-head,” Bucky said. “And the droopy blond.”

“I… am going to assume that’s correct.  I think that spell actually went both ways:  your memories in his body, and his in yours.”

Bucky looked out the window.  “He has my memories,” he repeated.

“Yeah.  I mean, no, not really - there _wasn’t_ much.  I think…  I think they must have… erased… you, before the spell was cast.  So there was almost nothing you could put in his brain, and he wound up surviving.”

His head snapped around again.

“Yeah, it was supposed to kill him.  I kind of forgot to mention that part.”

Silence.

“And maybe it would have killed you, too; you said you felt pretty sick.”

Silence.

“But I guess you’re pretty hard to kill.”

Bucky swallowed, then spoke.  “So who has my memories?” he asked.  “If not Lee Nicholas, and not me, then who?”

Now Tony didn’t say anything.

“They’re gone, aren’t they?”  His voice was harsh, like if he just pretended it didn't hurt, it would stop doing so.  

“Probably,” Tony said, voice subdued.  “Yeah.  I think so.”  He lifted a hand off the gear shift and patted Bucky’s shoulder - but it was the metal one, so who knows if he felt it?  “I’m sorry,” he said.

Barnes shrugged.  "Give me your phone," he said.  "And drive home, not the diner."

Tony eyed him out of the corner of his eye.  "Amy and Jack know, now," he warned, "And you would not  _believe_ how persistent they can be."

"Sure I would," Bucky said, "But we're not dodgin' 'em.  Text 'em the address, they can meet us there."

Tony tossed him the phone, being careful not to take his eyes off the road for more than a second to do it because he was the only one of his friends who drove like a sane person, and not even this could change that.  "You do it," he told Barnes, "And tell me why the change."

"Reason number one:  security.  Reason number two:  If the diner is not 24-hour, discussion could get interrupted.  Reason number three..."  He sighed, almost too quietly to hear.  "...I want your cat."

Tony flicked his eyes over, then back to the road.  "I think she's your cat," he told him.

They drove the rest of the way home in silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things!  
> 1) The theme song for THC was supposed to be a slow-down, ballad-style remix of [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yRY3-2x1WRQ), which is part of Benjamin Britten's War Requiem. From Wikipedia: "The War Requiem, Op. 66, is a large-scale, non-liturgical setting of the Requiem composed by Benjamin Britten mostly in 1961 and completed in January 1962.[1] The War Requiem was performed for the consecration of the new Coventry Cathedral, which was built after the original fourteenth-century structure was destroyed in a World War II bombing raid. The traditional Latin texts are interspersed, in telling juxtaposition, with settings of poems by Wilfred Owen, written in World War I. " The layers of irony and pungency in that choice just tickled me: A, Britten himself was a pacifist, and might not have approved of his work being used for THC. B, The War Req hadn't been written yet during the setting of the show. C, the poem quoted in this movement is called "The Next War" - written, of course, by Owen, during WWI. D, the text of the poem seems absolutely fucking perfect for the Howling Commandos; [take a look.](https://allpoetry.com/The-Next-War)  
> So yeah. I had fun coming up with that one.
> 
> 2) Amy's knitting: [The corset](http://knitty.com/ISSUEsummer04/PATTvicky.html) and the [leg warmers](http://drapcushions.com/2010/11/05/knit-leg-warmer-patterns/). She doing them both in stripes, black and purple.
> 
> 3) It took a significant force of will to keep this from turning into "The Magical Adventures of Bucky, Canada's Greatest One-Armed PA". The sacrifices I make, I tell you what.
> 
> 4) Purza is from Anne McCaffery's _The Rowan,_ and yes, I am aware she is not actually a cat. (Bucky ain't, though.)


	3. Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update! And it's only been *wince* three months! Hurray!
> 
> In all seriousness, these 10k word chapters are killing me - I'm probably going to split the last (LAST?!) chapter into two, *shorter* chapters - aiming for 7k or so. And depending on how much time I spend writing that vs. everything else, probably ETA 1 month, plus or minus 50%?
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: Viewpoint-character description of threats of torture. No actual torture occurs, because the... torturee?... cooperates. If that had not happened, there would have been further violence.

Purza’s on my lap, kneading the long muscles of my thighs with her pointy little paws.  That’s gonna hurt when she gets bigger, but for now it feels pretty good.  

I scratch behind her ear with my right hand, watching as Foster lets Scary Amy and Elson into the apartment.  There’s a kerfuffle at the door - Amy making a big deal out of Tony folding up his sofa-bed, which is ridiculous, because I’m the one who folds it up, and I do it every damn day - and then they’re in the apartment, Jack leaning against the counter, Tony and Amy on the couch with me.  

“Do you have anything to drink?” Amy asks as she lowers herself to the couch.

“Oh, _God,_ I could use a drink,” Tony says fervently. _“Yes.”_  He bounces back up again, heading for the itty bitty kitchen and reaching for a set of cupboards over the stove.  

“So,” Amy says, leaning sideways towards me across the couch, like she’s conspiring with me or something.  “I guess you’re a zombie WWII soldier?”

“Not a zombie,” I point out as Purza spooks and hops down.  “Too pink.”

Foster snorts, clinking ice into glasses and bringing them and the bottle out to us.  He even drags the coffee-table over like someone with manners.

“But that _is_ you,” Elson says, voice sharp.  “Bucky Barnes?”

“Apparently.”  I shrug.  “It’s my face, anyway.”  I try not to let it show how unnerving I find the whole thing.

“Memory loss,” Amy explains to her boyfriend, mentioning that Tony had been practicing memory spells on her.  

Then Tony explains about me having Lee’s memories.  There are a couple startled exclamations.   _Then_ Tony explains about me being a former brainwashed assassin who ran away from his (HYDRA) handlers when he found out they were evil because Lee Nicholas thinks Steve Rogers is the bee's fuckin' knees.  That gets a lot more exclamations.

“It kind of serves as confirmation, doesn’t it?” Tony asks.  “I mean, him having Lee’s memories is weird, and him looking like Barnes is weird, but him _being_ Barnes explains both those things, right?”

“In science, the ability to make accurate predictions is how you distinguish valid theories from invalid ones,” Amy says, bouncing her leg over her knee.  Nice legs, too, not that I was looking or anything (because she would stab me with a ballpoint pen).  She looks around at the three blank male faces and adds, impatiently, “It means yes, he probably really is Barnes.”  She tosses her hair over her shoulder in a well-practiced move.  “So then the question is, now, what do we do about it?”

And now they’re all looking at me again.

I shift on the couch, uncomfortable with all those stares.  On the other hand…

“I have protocols,” I offer, “For when a mission goes sideways.”  I grimace.  “Like Washington.  Followed protocols until protocols were inadequate; wound up here.

“Step one, retreat with remainder of support team to secure location.  Step two, reconnaissance to update intel and determine feasibility of remaining tasks.  Step three, complete as many remaining mission tasks as can be accomplished while retaining utility of the Asset.  Step four, coordinate and complete rendezvous with support team for extraction.”  I shrug, uncomfortable with the expressions and number of faces turned towards me.  “In D.C., my handlers were unreliable, so retaining utility rose to preeminent importance, and I self-extracted.

“But a similar process can be used now.”  

I look around the room, and I definitely do not see handlers.   But maybe - maybe - I see can the bones of a support team.

Foster would probably call them _friends._

“Step one:  retreat.”  I gesture around the apartment.  “Accomplished.”

Elson nods a grudging acknowledgement, and Scary Amy holds up her right hand as if taking a vow.  I frown at her, confused, and she rolls her eyes, grabs my hand, and slaps it against her own.

“High-five,” she informs me.  “A gesture of mutual congratulations.”  Lee's memories confirm, and I offer her a tentative smile.

When she smiles back, it’s awfully pointy.  Still pretty nice, though.

“Step two," I continue, "Recon.”  I shake my head.  “Seems to me, we got a good piece of intel tonight.”  

Nods around the room.

“But there’s more to be had.”  

More nods.

I hold up a single finger.  “Everything I know about Barnes I learned from a TV show.  Unacceptable.  Can we find out more?”  A second finger.  “Foster says Nicholas got _my_ memories, too.  Exactly what has he got?”  A third finger.  “What actions might potentially be taken against me due to my former profession?”  A fourth finger.  “Is anybody looking for me?  If so, who?  And how close are they to finding me?”

I fold the four fingers into a fist, and drop it into my lap.  “Potential avenues of action can be evaluated only in the light of accurate information.”  I flick a glance at Scary Amy, at Tony, and then Elson.  “First things first.”

The room is silent, except for Purza, who has decided that Elson’s shoes are interesting, and is insistently requesting that they move for her.  (They’re on Elson’s feet, though, and those are holding up Elson, so that’s probably not happening.)

Foster tosses his drink back and pours another one.  “That’s more words in one go than I’ve heard from you the whole time I’ve known you,” he says.

I glare.  

“...Yeah, see, that’s more familiar.”

“Well, Jack and I can look into any potential repercussions coming your way, and who’s looking for you,” Amy offers, looking at Jack to confirm with him.  He needs, grudgingly.  “I can check the internet, he can use his RCMP connections, we’ll have an answer in no time at all.”  She beams at me.

I nod, and look at Foster.  “You’ll talk to Lee Nicholas?” I ask softly.

He swallows, and glumly takes another drink.  “Yeah,” he says.  “I’m seeing him this week anyway.”

Amy’s head snaps up.  “Wait, what?”

Jack Elson unfolds his arms.  “You know, if he’ll be back in town, I’d love to talk with him, too,” he says.  “Shut up, Amy.  I know you’re partial on this one, but Lee was _also_ my friend, just as much as Tony.”

Scary Amy scowls, crossing her arms stubbornly and sticking out her lower lip.  It looks a little childish, and I kind of think she knows that.

“Amy, look...” Tony sighs, and she glares at him.  “...Lee wasn’t the one to break up with me, remember?  I broke up with him.”  

Sounds like something they’ve argued about before.

“He had valid reasons to act the way he does,” Tony continues, not sounding much like he believes what he’s saying.  (Scary Amy’s eyeroll indicates she agrees with me on that one.)

Tony gives up, tossing his left hand hopelessly in the air.  “And anyway, it doesn’t matter, because he’s not coming here.  I’m meeting up with him in New York.”

She blinks.  “What are you going to New York for?” she asks, distracted out of her sulk.

Foster swallows and cowers back into his corner of the couch.  “Job interviews.”

Amy drops her jaw, and then her glass, staring at him in utter betrayal.  

 

* * *

 

 _“I’m sorry,_ okay?” Foster shouts, looking pissed.  But under that he looks hurt, and I wonder if Scary Amy realizes she’s trying to shackle him.  

Probably not.  She’s a nice lady.  Wouldn’t do that on purpose.

But it’s been fifteen minutes, going round and round in a circle, and I’m tired.  Hell, even Elson looks like he wants to shoot them both.  “Scary Amy,” I break in, summoning her by her name.  It works; her green-streaked hair whips around as she snaps her head to the right to look at me.  “Foster has the right to grow,” I say quietly.  “'You can’t keep a tree in a pot on your porch forever.'”

Lee’s mother’s aphorism, but it works.  Scary Amy’s face crumbles, and she looks at Foster with guilt.  

He immediately hugs her.

 _These people,_ Jesus.  All hugs and smart mouths and big hearts.  Don’t know what I’m going to do with them.  

 

* * *

 

Research on Barnes is easy to conduct, with one small hurdle:  I have to trust Foster completely.

I think about it that night.  On the one hand, Foster knows that I’ve been an assassin, because I made the mistake of telling him during the briefing in the apartment I’d occupied.  And he knows that my last mission was in Washington and that it was against people traditionally thought of as _good guys._ If he wants to turn me in, he’s going to have plenty of opportunity to do it.

On the other hand, both Lee Nicholas’ memories and my own observations indicate that, having established that I am someone who needs his help, Foster isn’t going to give up until that help has been provided.  That includes not turning me over to the Avengers.

But if he _did_ want to, he _could._

* * *

 

* * *

> **The Ex:**  Still coming down for interviews Thursday/Friday, def not bringing a friend
> 
> **Lee:**  By “friend”, you mean “kidnapper”?  
>  **Lee:**  Oh, I’m so sorry to miss him
> 
> **The Ex:**  Your sarcasm is noted and ignored  
>  **The Ex:**  Seriously, the more I know him, the more I like him  
>  **The Ex:**  Also, I feel bad for him  
>  **The Ex:**  We keep finding out more awful shit about his past  
>  **The Ex:**  It’s terrible
> 
> **Lee:**  …  
>  **Lee:**  …  
>  **Lee:**  He’s hot, isn’t he?
> 
> **The Ex:**  ...    
>  **The Ex:**  SO HOT.    
>  **The Ex:**  You have NO idea  
>  **The Ex:**  He looks like you  
>  **The Ex:**  ONLY SOMEHOW MORE BUFF  
>  **The Ex:**  How is that possible?!    
>  **The Ex:**  *despair*
> 
> **Lee:**  *laughing emoji*
> 
> **The Ex:**  *eggplant emoji* *poop emoji*
> 
> **Lee:**  *eggplant emoji* *eggplant emoji* *heart* *shrimp tempura* 

* * *

 

* * *

The biggest HYDRA base in Canada is just outside of Toronto; it’s a three-and-a-half day trip by rail, and I go ahead and buy an actual ticket with purloined funds because I’m not going to spend _three and a half days_ clinging to the outside of a train.  I mean, I could - I did it to get into this country - but fuck it; why not just be comfy?

I leave Monday - catching the evening train because that stunt guy, Daniel, had had a fall scheduled, and his dumb ass would’ve broken a leg if I hadn’t done the jump for him - and cautiously curl up in my seat, taking advantage of  the relative-emptiness of the train, hoping to catch some sleep.

Three hours in, I call Tony on the burner phone to make sure he’s feeding the cat.

 _“Yes, Barnes!  Go investigate, or blow something up, or whatever you do.  Purza will be fine if she_ stops _trying to_ trip me _while I’m_ cooking!  Damn it, _cat!”_

I look at the phone, suspicious.  “You’re cooking?” I ask skeptically.

 _“I am…  Alright, I’m unloading food from take-out containers onto plates; it’s close enough!”_ I can only imagine the glare Tony is leveling at the phone.

It’s not very impressive, to be honest.  His shirt probably has some kind of sauce on it already. 

* * *

 ****

* * *

They had decided to meet for breakfast in a small cafe in Queens that Lee liked because the corner booth had sight-lines to all the exits from both sides.  

That was something new since this spring.  It was clearly a leftover from the spell that gave him Barnes’ memories, and it made Lee feel pretty bad for the guy, to be honest; if Barnes had made it home, his shellshock, especially after losing Steve, apparently would have been legendary.  

It wasn’t that Lee _couldn’t_ sit in a room where he couldn’t see the exits; he was a very talented actor, so he _could_ make himself do a lot of things.  It was just that, if he _did,_ he was _aware_ of it the entire time:  some prickling sensation on the back of his neck, some mental sensation like he was hearing a whisper just out of range - except that he wasn’t.  

Mostly, it worked out.  All of his friends these days were in the same boat, except Jodie, and he hadn’t spent much time with her this summer because he wasn’t on set.  Nobody was going to begrudge Lee a view of the room, because they all needed the same thing.

That didn’t mean it didn’t rankle; Lee found himself impatient with anxiety caused by a war he wasn’t even _born_ during.

At any rate, this cafe, with its beautifully positioned corner booth, was the solution to the sightline dilemma:  Lee could settle in on one side, Steve on the other, and neither one of them would be twitchy about exposing their backs.

Lee went ahead and ordered for both of them, because he knew what Steve would want by now, and when Steve got there (five minutes early, as opposed to Lee’s twenty minutes early, but Lee had skipped his run this morning to get there first), he settled in just before the waiter arrived with a double-stack of pancakes, eggs, bacon, ham, and oatmeal.

“How was your drive over?” Lee asked, grabbing for the syrup, not looking at Steve.

“Fine,” Steve answered, cutting into his ham.  “I walked, actually - it’s a nice day.”

Lee nodded, not saying anything.

They ate.

Lee made it halfway through his first pancake before giving up and talking about it.  “So!”  He poked a sausage.  “Reassessment day.  How are we doing?”

Steve sighed.  “We _are_ doing great,” he said, voice hopeless.  He started to pick up an enormous chunk of pancake, stared at it, sighed, and put it back on his plate to cut into smaller pieces.  “It’s just…”  Lee nodded again, encouragingly, and Steve finished his thought:  “It’s just that, if we keep going, we _won’t_ be doing great.”  He shoved one of the now-bisected pancake pieces in his mouth.

“Clint was right,” Lee agreed.  “If we kept going, the media _would_ catch on.”  He thought again about how _tense_ Steve had gotten, just thinking about it, and winced.  “I…  I don’t really think you’re ready for that.”

Steve stole a hunk of Lee’s sausage, but then just sat there with it hanging off his fork.  His shoulders were hunched up by his ears, and his neck looked tense; that pin-scratch frown of his was back between his eyebrows.  “I want to come out,” he said unhappily.

“I know.”  Lee stole a piece of ham in retaliation, not commenting further on what Steve had said.

He waited.

“I really - I’m not ready yet, but…”

“You want to come out,” Lee filled in.

“Yeah.”  Steve frowned at the sausage, then shook his head and popped it in his mouth.  Chewed, swallowed.  “Some time.”

Lee set his fork down and leaned back in his booth, looking past the corner of the table at Steve.  He folded his arms over his chest.  “Here’s an idea,” he said, voice both thoughtful and - just a smidge - aggressive.  He was very careful to keep it in bounds, though - no call to go overselling this.  “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Steve blinked at him.

“I mean, I understand why you would - even why it’s important, and I actually _agree_ with you there.  People deserve to know that their heroes are like them, et cetera, et cetera.  But I can also see a big reason why it’s important for you _not_ to come out, and I’m not sure you’re aware of that one.”

Steve looked totally blank.  He hastily stabbed some more pancake and shoved it in his mouth, only then asking, “Mmmph?”

Lee sighed, unfolding one arm to tap his fingers against his thigh under the table.  “You give a lot of yourself,” he started, watching Steve with a little frown on his face.  “You’re unfailingly polite to the civilians you meet in the street - even the waiter here, who, you haven’t even _met_ him yet, but I already know he’s going to geek out on you and you’re going to be a sweetheart to him - you spend all your time working for the Avengers, you spend any _free_ time you have _literally emailing a politician about policy -”_

“Well, be fair. Jeanine is the daughter of a friend, and she’s a very interesting person -” Steve cut in earnestly, but Lee rode right over him.

“You _care,_ Steve.  About everyone, all the time.”  Lee checked to be sure no one was approaching them or aiming a cell phone in their direction, then said, “Look, you know how you like drag, and everybody’s always _shocked_ when they find out?”

Steve also looked around the restaurant, then nodded, cautiously.

“But you don’t _not tell people that_ because you’re ashamed; it’s just nobody else’s business, right?”

Steve waggled his head from side to side, and that was fair; it was probably a mix of both motivations.  Still.

“It’s like that,” Lee explained.  “You need to keep some things for you that no one else knows, because you _give yourself_ to everybody _all the time,_ and that’s _exhausting._ No one can do that.”

Steve speared a piece of ham, the nodded again, this time accepting it.  “So you think my love life should be kept secret?” he asked, and no, that wasn’t quite right, but Lee had to stop and think before he could pin down why not.

“I think you should keep it a secret only so long as keeping the secret costs you less, emotionally, than speaking out,” he said finally.  “If that changes someday, then great - congratulations on whatever brings about the change, probably finding someone.  But if it doesn’t...  Whose business would it be, anyway?”

He stopped talking as he noticed the waiter heading in their direction.  “Look, just think about it, Steve.”

Steve nodded and held out his coffee cup to be refilled, and the waiter smiled at him as he reached over with the carafe.  “Everything good, uh…”  Lee could see the exact moment when their server realized who was on the other side of the booth; his voice faded into dizziness on the last word.  “...gentlemen?”

“We’re good, thanks, Peter,” Lee said.  Honestly, he’d been here every other week for the last three months, and he still had to read Peter’s name off of his name tag.  Peter turned hopeful, pleading eyes on him, and Lee obligingly made the introduction:  “This is my friend Steve, yes, _that_ Steve, and if you feel the need to Instagram this, please wait until we’ve both left the restaurant.”

“Oh!  Oh, no, I won’t - I wouldn’t!”  His voice was almost a squeak as he looked at Steve.  “It’s very nice to meet you, sir!”

“Pleasure to meet you, too, Peter,” Steve said in full Captain-voice, and Lee mentally grinned.  “And yes, everything’s delicious.”  His tone was kind, his eyes twinkling; Peter looked about ready to faint.

“Thank you so much!” he said, and practically pelted away.

Lee watched him go.  “...He’s going to try to give you something for free, isn’t he?”

“I sure _hope_ so,” Steve said.  “They had pie in the case out front.”  He cleared his throat, an obvious signal of an incoming change in subject.  “Lee.”

Lee looked up.

“Thank you,” Steve said, gesturing towards him with his fork.  “For this, I mean.  I…” He tilted his head sideways, and gave Lee a Captain smile, which made him laugh - probably as Steve had intended.  “I needed to hear it from someone else,” he finished.  Which implied it was something he’d already thought of and dismissed, which, Lee thought with a mental eyeroll, would be just typical.  

“You’re welcome,” Lee said, and turned back to his pancakes.

 _“And_ thank you for all the orgasms,” Steve added, faux-serious, and Lee looked up quickly to see him smirk.  “You’re very kind, Lee, very kind.”

“Oh,” Lee said, tossing the smirk right back, “My pleasure.   _Believe_ me, my pleasure.”

Steve ate another pancake, smugly; Lee sipped at his coffee with affected primness.

And that was how he broke up with Captain America.

 

* * *

 

> **Lee:**  So when are your interviews?
> 
> **The Ex:**  I have one at 2 and one at 8 on Friday  
>  **The Ex:**  so, lunch?  
>  **The Ex:**  at noon?
> 
> **Lee:**  Sure  
>  **Lee:**  where are they?
> 
> **The Ex:**  8 - Amazon; 2 - HBO  
>  **The Ex:**  Thursday afternoon, 2:30, 20th CFx.
> 
> **Lee:**  Ok, can do  
>  **Lee:**  Heartland Chophouse and Brewery, noon?  Two blocks from HBO hq
> 
> **The Ex:**  Sounds great
> 
> **The Ex:**  …  
>  **The Ex:**  

* * *

 

* * *

Amy calls the burner phone just outside of Sudbury to tell me that, as far as either she or Jack can tell, there isn’t any active manhunt from any of the standard law enforcement divisions, including the FBI, CIA, RCMP, or even the Washington, D.C., police.

 _“SHIELD’s a little trickier,”_ Amy tells me.   _“Officially, they no longer exist - their supporting organisations were the US Government, along with the World Security Council, and both have formally disbanded SHIELD - but the reality is that there are probably still SHIELD agents out there, being…  SHIELD-agenty.”_

That is not a real word.

 _“Still,”_ she finished, _“Let’s be real, they probably have bigger problems than you right now.  They’re going to look for the villains that A, aren’t ghost stories, and B,_ are _actively trying to kill them.  There’s bound to be plenty - apparently, there was this huge breakout at the SHIELD prison?”_

“Probably” isn’t as definite as I was hoping for, but it is pretty good news.  

“What about the guys in New York?” I ask, aware of the intense scrutiny I’m getting from a college-age girl in the seat across from me.  

_“Well, they aren’t publishing their projects.  I did find out that one of SHIELD’s higher-ups, one Maria Hill, is now working for Stark Industries - three guesses what she’s doing, and the first two don’t count.  On the other hand, I’m not sure how much more information they have on you than we do.  I mean, do they even know your, uh…  former professional identity?”_

I snort.  “Do you mean the Sergeant, or the Soldier?”

The girl across from me widens her eyes slightly.  She has not turned the page in her book for three minutes.  I glare at her, and she hurriedly gets up and goes to the dining car.

_“I meant the, uh…  Soldier.  Everyone thinks Barnes is dead.”_

_“AMY!”_ Jack is apparently in the room.  Probably, given his volume, on the _opposite side_ of the room.

_“WHAT, JACK?!  They do!”_

_“That’s rude!”_

“My feelings ain’t hurt,” I break in on half a groan, mostly in an attempt to cut it off before I have to listen to the whole lover’s quarrel.

_“See?  His feelings aren’t hurt!”_

_“It’s still_ rude, _Amy.  Would it hurt you to be sensitive every now and then?”_

_“Sensitive like you were when Zev started dating Raph?”_

_“For the last fucking time,_ I didn’t know they were dating!”

... The attempt is not particularly successful.

_Damn it._

* * *

 

* * *

> **The Ex:**  …  
>  **The Ex:**  Hey, remember that thing two months ago where crazy ladies cast a spell on you?
> 
> **Lee:**  You are SO BAD at casual  
>  **Lee:**  It’s embarrassing
> 
> **The Ex:**  To be fair, how could I say that casually?  
>  **The Ex:**  I’m trying here.  
>  **The Ex:**  Anyway  
>  **The Ex:**  Found something out about that  
>  **The Ex:**  Not a HUGE deal, but thought you should know
> 
> **Lee:**  Ok  
>  **Lee:**  What?
> 
> **The Ex:**  Kinda want to tell you in person
> 
> **Lee:**  …
> 
> **The Ex:**  I’m lying, it is a huge deal
> 
> **Lee:**  …  
>  **Lee:**  …  
>  **Lee:**
> 
> **The Ex:**  it’s not something you should be worried about, though
> 
> **Lee:**  Is it something that’s going to piss me off?
> 
> **The Ex:**  I don’t know  
>  **The Ex:**  Probably, actually  
>  **The Ex:**  But also so weird you may be more freaked out than pissed off
> 
> **Lee:**  Tony
> 
> **The Ex:**  I don’t think it’s anything we can do anything about  
>  **The Ex:**  And, if I could, I don’t think I would  
>  **The Ex:**  For reasons I will explain in person
> 
> **Lee:**  Tony
> 
> **The Ex:**  I’m not sure you’d even believe me over the phone
> 
> **Lee:**  …  
>  **Lee:  
>  ****Lee:**  …  
>  **Lee:**  You flying in Thursday morning?
> 
> **The Ex:**  Yeah, in around eleven
> 
> **Lee:**  Hmmm.  
>  **Lee:**  Well, good luck at the interviews  
>  **Lee:**  I’ll see you Friday at noon 

* * *

 

* * *

I leave the train depot with the hood of my jacket pulled up around my ears, my mostly-empty hiking backpack slung over my shoulder; I have the burner phone out and headphones in, though I’m not using it to listen to anything - being absorbed in a phone is an excellent cover.

Two blocks north, one block west for a couple miles at a brisk pace - no one has been tailing me, and no one starts.  There’s a small business park here, all manicured lawns and bland generically-artistic fountains, and I steal a car from the garage underneath the nearest glass-and-chrome monstrosity.  I make sure it’s a nice car - the kind of car you only get if you’re an asshole who can afford to replace it.

Also the kind of car that can go a hundred and twenty for an hour and a half without panicking.  Not a coincidence.

Transportation acquired; time to go steal some guns.

* * *

 

* * *

Tony was actually early to the restaurant; Lee pretended to die of shock, Tony flipped him off, and suddenly everything was okay again.  Lee felt his shoulders dropping, and he breathed out.

(Alright, so maybe - _maybe_ \- he’d been a bit nervous about seeing Tony again.)

“You look good,” Lee said, after greeting him.

It was true.  Tony was wearing a light gray suit with a blue tie and white shirt; his shoes were conservative and well-shined.  The pale colors brought out his eyes without overwhelming his fair palette - and, Lee suspected, were more comfortable in the sticky New York summer.  His suit was cut sharply, emphasizing his trim figure (it was amazing what thousands of calories of spellcasting could do for your form…) without being too fashion-forward.  He even had a pocket-square that matched his tie.

“Who _dressed_ you?” Lee wondered, thinking of Amy (in all her gothy glory), then Jack (in his red serge), and then Zev (who wore jeans to the courthouse when he got married), in quick succession.  “Wait, was it Henry?”

“It wasn’t Henry,” Tony said, flushing.  “He actually hates formal wear.  Claims he can’t really move in it.  Although he did wear a tux once for Halloween…”

“He dressed up as a vampire, didn’t he?” Lee asked, resigned and already knowing the answer.

“Mm-hmm.”  Tony settled into his chair.  “I don’t want to talk about the clothing thing, it was traumatic,” he told Lee, “But this suit was picked out by CB.”

Lee felt his eyes go wide as he stared at Tony.

“I _told_ you it was traumatic!”  Tony waved his hands in a complicated pattern most likely intended to convey, _I know, I know, it was weird for me too.  Hey, is there food here?_

(Tony’s hand-gestures were pretty much always hungry.)

After placing their orders - Lee got the meatloaf, Tony got the fish tacos (“Because _fish tacos,_ Lee, _obviously,”)_ and they agreed to split the spring rolls and the chorizo quesadilla, because they both sounded delicious - Lee leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, chewing a lip as he studied Tony.

Tony slurped at his coke, pale blue eyes narrowed warily, and shifted in his seat.

 _Good,_ Lee thought - maybe a little viciously, but on the other hand, Tony kind of deserved it...

He pulled out his phone, tabbing through to his messages.  “'Hey,’” he quoted, “‘Remember that thing two months ago where crazy ladies cast a spell on you? Found something out about that.’  ‘Not a HUGE deal, but thought you should know.’”

Tony winced.

“‘Is it going to make me mad?’ ‘Probably.’”

“Okay, I get it -”

“‘But also so weird you may be more freaked out than pissed off.’”

“I _get it,_ okay?  Stop!”  Tony set his glass down with a thunk; it was already empty.  “I’m sorry if I worried you.  It’s _weird,_ okay?”

“Is it?” Lee asked pointedly. _“I wouldn’t know.”_

Tony grumbled as the server magically appeared with another coke.

“Look, you are not going to like this -” Tony started.

“Fan- _tas-_ tic.”

“- but I really need to swear you to secrecy on this,” he continued over top of him.  Which was fair, Lee reflected; he knew he was being a bit of brat about this.

 _On the other hand, Tony casually mentioned a problem with the_ brain spell _over a_ text, _so maybe I’m gonna hold off on being fair for a while!_

“Why?” he grumbled.

“Because.”

“Because _why?”_

Tony closed his eyes, visibly stopped himself from snarking, and said, “Because Captain America _absolutely can’t know about it._   _I_ was sworn to secrecy - I had to argue for an exception in your case - and _you_ can’t tell _anyone,_ but especially not _him.”_ He slurped at the second coke.  “And I know you and he are friends, as weird as that still seems to me.”  He tilted his head to the side, side-tracked.  “Seriously, what the hell, Lee?”

Lee glared.  “Excuse me?” he hissed, quietly enough that they couldn’t be overheard.  “Remind me again, which one of us has dated the _undead prince of England?”_

“He wasn’t a prince, he was a duke - and that’s different!”  Tony glared right back.

Lee huffed.  “Fine,” he bit out.  “I promise I won’t tell anyone whatever your big secret is.   _Unless_ I judge that the fate of the world is at stake, which is a reasonable proviso, because your whole reason for secrecy is to keep it from _Captain America.”_

Tony hesitated, but had to acknowledge the fairness of that.  “Yeah, okay,” he said.  “Soooo, Bucky Barnes is alive.”

* * *

 

* * *

Of course I brought a gun on the train - a few knives, as well, including my favorite little ceramic number - but the train is a lousy place to be carrying firearms, especially the higher-caliber ones I need for this.  But HYDRA has - or had - (but probably still has) - a supply depot near the CN tower, so I head back downtown in my purloined BMW.

The depot itself is abandoned, with electronic alarms and cameras, but no man on site.  I’m in and out without the cameras ever noticing, my bag full enough of guns, knives, grenades, and garrotes to make even my paranoid, fucked-up mind still and calm.

(There’s a miniaturized flamethrower.  The noise I make when I find it is definitely not a delighted squeal.)

I take some cash, too - not much, about a hundred thousand each in Canadian and US dollars - along with a couple bottles of water.  There are protein bars in the depot, too, but I skip those - I can always buy some later, and the ones on the grocery store shelves taste better.

The base is half an hour outside the city; I’m on my way before the clock strikes one.

* * *

 

* * *

Lee closed his eyes and rubbed his temple while the server deposited the spring rolls and quesadilla in front of them; Tony made a gleeful noise and thanked him, then dug in with moderately obscene _mmmm_ sounds.  

(They were even more obscene if you, like Lee, had seen what Tony could do with his mouth.  

It really wasn’t fair.)

Lee opened his eyes and grabbed a piece of quesadilla, because he’d seen the way Tony could eat and he wanted to get some before they were all gone.  “That is actually more believable than it would have been a year ago,” he commented before shoving it in his mouth.  

Tony nodded.  “It’s a pretty weird story,” he offered.  “I’m not sure how he survived - we hit Wikipedia, apparently he’s supposed to have died in a fall?”

“From a train hurtling through the alps,” Lee remembered.  “Combined velocities of forward and vertical acceleration, he should have been a paste on the ground.  The area was pretty snowy, though; there were -” He waves his hand in a gentle sine curve to indicate piles of precipitation. “- drifts.  He still should have been at least maimed by the fall, and then the cold should have killed him.”

“Should it?” Tony asked, surprised.  “He said that’s…  He said he can survive very cold temperatures.”

Lee blinked.  “According to St - _Captain Rogers,_ it should.”

“Okay, but no, right?  Because Barnes had the serum?  Some version of it?”

“Yeah...” Lee frowned.  “But how did _you_ know that?  No one reported it at the time.”  And it wasn’t going to come up in the show, they had decided, until next season.

“Uh.”  Tony shoved quesadilla in his face in an attempt to look less suspicious, but was only marginally successful.  He swallowed, and said, “I’ll get there - there’s a reason I know that, I promise.  So Barnes had the serum, he would have survived the cold.”

“But Steve said -”

 _“Lee.”_ Tony shook his head dismissively and looked at him in exasperation.   _“Captain America_ survived the cold, didn’t he?”

He had, Lee realized.  He’d been frozen for seventy years, and he just popped right back into motion once he was thawed.

“Oh,” Lee said.  

And then, after a minute…

“Hey, these buffalo spring rolls are pretty good.”

* * *

 

* * *

Unlike the supply depot, the base _is_ occupied.  

All to the good, really.  I slip off my hoodie before I go in, making sure my metal arm gleams beneath the sleeve of my tight gray t-shirt.  

(I put the hoodie in my backpack with the burner phone, and tuck them both in a tree five miles from the base.  I like the hoodie; best to keep it out of the firefight.)

* * *

 

* * *

“No, but wait,” Lee protested after they’d gotten their meals.  “If Barnes is still alive, why don’t I have his memories?”

“Amnesia.”  Tony bit into his fish taco with a look of bliss.  “Jesus, that’s good.  He, uh..."  Tony scrubbed his free hand along his thigh, a nervous tell Lee had never told him he had.  "He would like to know exactly what memories of his you have."

Lee scowled down at his plate.  "I suppose that's reasonable," he agreed, "But the answer is, 'almost none'.  Procedural memories, mostly - I can pick locks, work with guns, I'm far more effective at escapology and hand-to-hand than someone with my lack of training should be...  But I don't have any 1930's memories, or anything like that."  He sipped at his drink reflectively.  "I suppose some amnesia on his part explains a lot.  Uh.  When I was kidnapped, I knew the strategy for escape before Isaac went over it with me, so some tactics?"

Tony nodded understanding.  "Anything else?"

Lee hesitated, but really - he had noticed it, he was sitting here talking with the expert  _right now,_ and if it  _was_ something that Tony should be worried about with Barnes...  Lee leaned forward and dropped his voice.  "Look around," he told Tony, not looking away from the other man's eyes.  "We're sitting against the back wall; there main entrance is sixty yards ahead on my 11, the side exit is fifteen yards away on my three, and there is a strong likelihood - I'm not putting a percent chance on it, but I suspect Barnes could and would - that there's a third and fourth exit through the kitchen, which has its entrance forty yards away at my two.  Nearest weaponry is a concealed handgun on the plainclothes cop in the blue suit - see him, balding, five tables away?"  Tony nodded without looking, eyes wide, and belatedly Lee remembered why Tony would be tracking undercover cops.  "Otherwise, there are plenty of knives in the kitchen, the chairs of course, if I'm in a hurry, and you."

Lee shook his head and sipped his drink again, this time to swallow frustration.

"I do this every time I walk into a building.  I do this every time I walk  _out_ of a building.  Between that and the nightmares, I'm pretty sure Barnes has PTSD."  

Tony swallowed and nodded, still looking stunned.  

"I  _know_ he has anxiety," Lee continued.  "I've had trouble, since, referring to people in authority by anything other than  _sir._ I don't like making choices, anymore.  I avoid crowds, except that my job makes that... pretty difficult."  He shrugs.  "I have a feeling I only caught the edge of Barnes' disorders, and I'm trained in concealing how I feel.  But you did ask."

"I did," Tony said softly.

"Amnesia explains a lot of it.  If I couldn't remember anything and nothing looked familiar, I'd probably be pretty anxious, too.

"Yeah," Tony agreed unhappily.  "That’s... actually why he came to me.  He thought I could magic his memory back.”

Lee… _paused._ “That doesn’t make much sense…” he started slowly, but Tony was already nodding as if he knew where Lee was going.

He probably did.

“You’re wondering why he knew to come to me, when he’d never heard of me.”

“And why he only just… _woke up?_ Is that the right phrase?  Wait, was he unconscious before?”  Lee looked the question at Tony, and Tony… winced.

“We think he was actually periodically awakened over the years, but always returned to unconsciousness,” he said.

“Why?”  Lee can’t imagine anyone wanting to Rip Van Winkle forever…

“Uhhh…  Reasons.  Can’t tell you.   _Anyway._ This all comes back the big thing I needed to tell you, the thing I think is gonna piss you off.  That spell to give you his memories?”

“What there _were_ of them,” Lee murmured, not terribly graciously because he was aware that he was being distracted.

“Yeah, that.  Apparently, it was a two-way street.”

“A two-way -”  Lee stopped.

Closed his eyes.

Breathed.

In.

And out.

_A two-way street.  Meaning, I got his, and he got mine._

_Meaning, he knows literally my most intimate goddamn thoughts!_

Opened them again.

“You said your interview was at two?” he asked distantly, clenching his jaw.

“Uhhh…  Yeah?”

“Oh, good.”  He grabbed his fork and dug frantically into the meatloaf.  “So I can be at a bar by three, then.”  

_Because after that bombshell, I’ve completely fucking earned it!_

* * *

 

* * *

 _My hoodie would definitely have been ruined,_ I think, as I sort through the files on the computer.  I pull out an external hard drive and start copying files - mostly the documentation on my arm, but also the procedures on the memory wipes.  I pull open file after file on me, but all of them are mission reports - I save them to the drive without reading too far into them - and none of them say... anything about me, really.  

Where I came from.

How I fell under HYDRA’s control.

 _Or what the_ fuck _happened to my arm in the_ first _fucking place!_

One of the scientists duct taped to the floor behind me whimpers, and I realize I’ve been growling.

Fine by me.  Far as I’m concerned, it’s these fuckers’ _turn_ to be scared.

* * *

 

* * *

 _"All_ of my memories?” he asked, resting his forearms on the table.  

Tony made an indeterminate whining sound.  “I mean, yeah?  But no?  It’s like…  He pulls them up, sometimes - things trigger a memory, and he’ll remember it, but otherwise it’s just… background.”

Lee leaned back, forearms still on the table, and studied Tony.  “...Do you actually have any idea what you’re talking about?”

“Eh…”  Tony waggled his hand, palm down, back and forth in the air.  “I asked him about it, but I didn’t press too hard, you know?”

“Alright.”  Lee leaned in again and resumed eating.  “You said he has amnesia; are his… my…”  He broke off, started again.  “If he can’t remember anything of his own past, are his copies of my memories going to fade similarly?”

Tony blinked, then shook his head.  “I can see why you would ask that, but no - we know why his own memories are gone, it _sucks,_ but that’s not going to happen to…”  He wrinkled his nose. _"His copies of your memories,_ good phrase for it.  But on the other hand…  He’s getting his own memories back.  Well, somewhat.”  He paused.  “Slowly.  Anyway, those might over-write his copied-memories.”

Lee very carefully breathed in and out, then took another bite.  “Okay,” he said when he had swallowed.  “I can deal with this.  But!”  He pointed at Tony with his fork, making his eyes fierce.  “Whatever situation has caused you to have a code of silence on this?  You need to _resolve_ that, and _fast,_ because let me tell you, when Steve finds out about this?  It is going to _break his heart_ .  And the fact that he didn’t know - that _I_ knew, and didn’t _tell him -_ that’s only going to make it worse.”  Lee deliberately picked up his knife and stabbed his meatloaf, even though it was perfectly tender and did not in any way need cutting.  “Let’s minimize the damage to Captain America’s _soul,_ alright?”

Tony, pale, nodded so fast he looked like a bobble-head.

* * *

 

* * *

“You have got to be fuckin’ kidding me.”  My voice cuts harshly through the silence of the base - everybody else in the building is either gagged or _dead with extreme prejudice -_ and bounces off the concrete walls to come back to my ears, sharper and yet more gravelly than I had imagined it being.   _“What.”_

One of the scientists whimpers.  

Yeah, that’s as good an idea as any.  I hop up from my chair - not really _that_ fast, but I guess faster than the scientist had been expecting because she cringes back like I was coming at her with a knife out.

Good idea, actually.  

I pull out my favorite, a six-and-a-half inch ceramic Bowie-style.  Useful for just about anything, and of course it looks scary as fuck.

The scientist makes noises into her gag; it’s tough to make out, but I’m pretty sure she’s saying variations on, “Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh God no -”

'Bout right, then.  

I use my thumb and the knife to pinch the edge of the gag and pull it off.

“Really?” I ask her, impatiently, and her watery blue eyes widen in confusion.

“I - I - I don’t know what you want, sir - please don’t -”

I raise my eyebrows real high.  “Please don’t _what?”_ I ask, mostly curious to see what she’ll answer.  Granted, I’m not exactly the best authority here, but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t involved enough in my… _care…_ to answer, _Please don’t do to me what I did to you._

She gasps and chokes a little before answering.  “I don’t - I don’t know, just please -”  Her voice breaks and she sniffles.  “You have a knife out, sir,” she finishes quietly.

I flip it in my hand.  “Yep,” I say.  “Sure do.”

She bites her lip and closes her eyes, but a couple of tears leak out, anyway.

“So here’s the thing.  I’m gonna ask you some questions.  Pretty reasonable questions, nothing too in-depth.  Some of ‘em I don’t know the answers to, but some of ‘em I do.  I ain’t gonna tell you which is which, and you’re going to answer _every_ questions as butt-fuck honestly as you can, because if you lie and I catch you, some very unpleasant things are going to happen.”

I lean in and wait for her to open her eyes, making sure that she’s tracking what I’m saying.

“To your eyeballs,” I clarify, “Because I know you need those to read, right?  You're a scientist, you monitor results, read papers, all that stuff?”

She nods very quickly.

“Alright, then.  Here we go.  Question one:  what’s your name?”

Her eyes widen slowly as she comprehends the question, and her eyebrows draw in with panic as she realizes the answer.  “I don’t remember!  Oh, god, I don’t remember!  I promise I’m telling the truth!”  She’s sobbing full-out, now.

“I know you’re telling the truth,” I sigh.  “That’s why I started with a softball, here.  I know, it’s hard to think when you’re panicking.  Just take deep breaths, and work it through.  Full name might be easier, it’s got a different rhythm.”

She jerks for a few minutes, but she does breath, and after a minute, she says, “Elizabeth,” really quietly.  

“Go by Liz?”

She shakes her head.  

“Apple,” she says.  “It’s - it’s an in-joke.”

“Alright,” I say.  “That’s real good, Apple.  Number two:  Where are we right now?”

She rattles off the coordinates, then hesitates and adds another series of numbers and the name of the nearest suburb.  “Good job.  What was that second set of numbers?”

“Uh.  Uh.  IP address?”

I baseline that one.  

“Good job,” I repeat.  “Now let’s get a little more complicated…”

* * *

 

* * *

“Do you know which project at HBO they’re considering you for?” Lee asked as they poked at each other’s desserts.

Tony shook his head.  “They were very hush-hush about it,” he answered.  “I did consider that it _might_ be your show…”  He frowned out the window, chewing on a lip.  “I’m not sure if that would be better, or not,” he admitted.

“I’m not, either,” Lee said frankly.

“It was alright working with Zev,” Tony said, stabbing his chocolate with his fork.  “He’s always been so chill, about everything.  And I’m not a jealous guy, really.  But, well…  You’re different.  Me and Zev… it was about forty degrees more chill than me and you.”

Lee licked his spoon thoughtfully.  “You know, you being my ex has nothing to do with my hesitation to work with you?”

Tony blinked and looked offended, so Lee put down his spoon and took it seriously.

“Remember that time you left set in the middle of filming to do wizard stuff?” he asked.

“Which one?” Tony asked.

“Exactly.”  Lee raised his eyebrows.

“Oh,” Tony said.  “But…”  

Lee inched his eyebrows up further, then drew the left one in to signal incredulity.

“Oh,” Tony said again, voice smaller.  “I guess on a project like _The Howling Commandos,_ that’s not really an option.”

“It’s not really an option on _any_ project you’re directing, Tony.”  Lee crossed his legs under the table, needing to move but pinned where he was, for the moment.  “I’m guessing no one has said this to you, and I’m sorry that I’m going to be the one to do it…”

“Not sorry enough to leave it unsaid,” Tony muttered.  Lee probably wasn’t supposed to hear it, but he answered it anyway.

“No, not that sorry,” he agreed.  “You need to hear this.

“At some point, you have to choose.  You can _either_ be a director, _or_ you can be the wizard who saves the day.  Sooner or later, it’s one or the other.  And if you’re going to choose that second one, I don’t want you directing my show.”  

Tony’s shoulders slumped, and he stabbed at his chocolate some more, this time with frustration.  “That’s not fair,” he objected.  “Directing is what I _want_ to do.  It’s what I _care_ about, damn it!  Wizarding is something I _have_ to do, because it needs to happen and no one else can do it!  I can’t just put myself ahead of _all of humanity,_ Lee.  I’m not _that_ big an asshole.”

“You’re not an asshole at all,” Lee agreed.

Tony snorted.

“Okay,” Lee admitted, the corners of his mouth twitching, “you’re _mostly_ not an asshole.  But that’s not really the choice you’re facing now, is it?”

Tony blinked at him again, surprised for the umpteenth time in this conversation.

“You’re in _New York,_ Tony.  We have more superheroes per capita than anywhere else in the world.”

“Smallville,” Tony pointed out.  “Lower capita, higher superheroes per.”

Lee squinted at him.  “Also _fictional?”_

Tony shrugged.

“Look,” Lee waved it off, “I have _Captain America_ on my speed-dial.  If something goes wizardishly wrong while we’re filming, we won’t exactly be without resources.  You wouldn’t have to stop what you were doing and go save the world, because there’s already people here who _do_ that.”  He thought about it, then added, “And I know for a fact that they get pretty bored if they don’t have anything to do.

“But I need you to choose, alright?  Director or Wizard; pick one and stick to it.  Because I don’t want a wizard directing me any more than you want Peter or Tina trying to cast spells for you.”

Tony wasn’t meeting his eyes; he looked out the window again, at the salt shaker, at his shoes…  He checked his watch, then got serious about his chocolate.  “Let’s finish up and head out,” he said.  “I need to be at the interview in half an hour, and I don’t want to be late.”

They argued briefly over the bill - Lee won by pointing out that they’d talked business, so he could expense it - then headed out, walking the two blocks to the HBO building.  Half a block from their destination, though, Tony sighed, and pulled Lee into the shadowed recess of some skyscraper’s emergency exit.  

“Look,” he said, “I can’t promise I can do it forever.  But I want to _try,_ alright?  I’m not ready to give up my dream, and you - you pretty much just _told_ me I might not have to.”  This close, Lee could see the shadows catching on the small hole where Tony’s eyebrow piercing usually sat.  “Here’s what I _can_ promise: if it gets to be too much, I’ll quit.  Cite personal reasons, put in my notice, and you won’t have to deal with me… _double-timing_ you.  I won’t try to do both.”  Tony ducks his head, then met Lee’s eyes.  “Is that enough?   _Can_ it be?”

Lee covered Tony’s hand where it curled into the front of his shirt.  “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet.  He smiled, and resisted the temptation to cup Tony’s cheek with his hand.  Resisted the urge to brush his thumb over Tony’s problematical lower lip.

Didn’t kiss him.  

“It’s enough,” he husked.  

They stood like that for a moment, two men curled into the only patch of shadow in the hot New York mid-day, feet distant, but hands connecting.  It felt… familiar, in a way.  Felt good, to be able to hold Tony - even just his hand - before they stepped out and tried something new.  It _had been_ familiar, Lee realized - this was something from before they’d been dating.  Something Lee had had with _Tony-the-friend_ before he’d had it with _Tony-the-lover._

It was good.  Warm, like the rift between them was finally healing.

But it didn’t stop him from wanting _Tony-the-lover_ back...

 _And maybe Tony feels the same damn way, since he’s looking at my fucking mouth!_  

He was.  Tony was _licking his lips_ while _looking at Lee’s mouth,_ and suddenly that mouth was dry, and the hand holding Tony’s to his chest was shaking _._

Lee thought, _Tony is about to kiss me,_ and couldn’t for the life of him remember why that was a bad idea.  He wanted it so badly he was going dizzy with it...

But then Tony’s whole body jerked, and he pulled away.  He looked back out into the street.  “We should, uh…”  He cleared his throat with a sound like gargling marbles.  “We should head in to that interview.”

Lee watched him carefully, like he was a poison frog that might spit acid at him at any moment.  “Right,” he agreed, ruthlessly suppressing the disappointment.

Tony nodded like he had just confirmed something, and turned away.  

_Damn it._

_Fuck!_

_Damn it!!_

* * *

 

* * *

Apple doesn’t know who I am - neither by my original name nor by my _nom de guerre._ She doesn’t know anything about me, in fact, not even when I un-duct-tape her from the floor and bend her over the desk to look at the files I’ve pulled up, just in case it jogs her memory.  She does, however, venture some educated guesses based on the data once shown it, which is decent of her, for a HYDRA lackey.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just - my clearance level is -”  She taps her security badge against the reader hooked up to the machine, and it angrily informs me that she is Level 2, and not authorized to view these files.  Then the files close and the whole machine lights up with a red box filled with an angry squid bracketed by exclamation points, which demands reauthorization.  The whole thing is surreally ASCII-ish.

“SHIT!” she screams, “Oh god oh god I didn’t mean to do that SHIT!”

I roll my eyes.

“Hey, Apple,” I say in my friendliest voice.

She cringes away.

“You seem like a nice young lady,” I tell her.  “You know.  For a Nazi piece of shit, naturally.”

She cringes again.  Nods tentatively.

“How’d you get into this, anyway?” I ask, keeping my voice real friendly for a guy who squelches every step from the blood in his shoes.

She swallows.  “My dad,” she answers dully.  “He told me -” She shrugs.  “Doesn’t matter now - he was at the Hub, anyway.”  

I pause, access what memories I can.  “The SHIELD office?  He one of the HYDRA operatives there?”

She nods.

“He’s dead now, huh?”

She nods again.

I look at her thoughtfully.  “You even have a clue what was involved in this?” I ask finally.

She shakes her head.  Sniffles.

Stops to think.

Then, reluctantly, she nods, instead.  “I knew,” she says, voice low.  “I just told myself - I - I tried to pretend I didn’t.”

I chew it over.  “Hey, Apple,” I say finally.  “Get up and turn around, hands behind your back.”

Her face crumples, but she does it.

I tie her up again, lead her gently back to stand before the rest of the group.  

“Alright, Apple.”  I keep my voice nice and soothing.  “Now which these assholes _does_ have the clearance to tell me what I want to know?”

Her eyes clear, then fill with rage, and she looks to a pinched, hateful-looking woman in a very expensive pantsuit.  

“Remember the punishment for lying,” I say very softly.  

Apple closes her eyes and nods resignedly.  “That guy,” she says, indicating a portly, balding man in a rather cheaper, gray suit.  

I tape Apple back down, then kick the pinched-faced lady in the gut, anyway.  

Eh, she probably deserved it.

* * *

 

* * *

“Hey, Jodie,” Lee said, catching her eye as the two of them walked into the lobby.  Jodie was hanging out near the entrance in “professional wear”, which included heels and a skirt.  She also had her hair up in some sort of bun thing - more complicated than her usual ponytail, anyway - and Lee found it disconcerting, seeing her so dressed up - actually seeing her in _anything_ that wasn’t denim.  She almost would have seemed like a different person, except that her septum piercing was still neatly in place.

“Lee!” she squealed, “Ohmigod, you look _so good!”_

(Alright, maybe Lee’d been trying to make a good impression on Tony.

_So sue me.)_

“Thanks,” Lee said, smiling at her.  “You, too.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jodie said, dropping her eyes and her hand - the right one, the left was still clutching a clipboard - to smooth her skirt.  “I always feel weird in heels,” she complained.

“Well, you look great,” Lee said firmly.

“Thanks,” she repeated.  “I’m supposed to be loitering up here for interview intakes,” she said, grinning conspiratorially, “Or I’d sneak off with you wherever you’re going…?”

Incurable nosiness, Lee reflected, was only one part of what made Jodie so good at her job.

“Well, as it happens…”  He pulled Tony firmly forward with a hand on his elbow; Tony gave it a squirrelly look, but didn’t object.  “...I’m pretty sure I’ve got one of your interviewees right here.”

“Hi,” Tony smiled weakly at her.  “Uh.  Tony Foster?”

Jodie blinked, then looked down at her clipboard.  “Yeah, actually, okay.”  She smiled back up at him.  “Glad to meet you.”  She was playing up her Jersey accent, Lee couldn’t help but notice; it came out more like, _Glad ta meetcha!_

“Tony worked with me on _Darkest Night,”_ Lee commented, and he got to watch Jodie’s eyes light up.

“Ohmigod, I _loved_ that show!  I love Mason Reed, but Lee says he was a real asshole.”

Lee choked.  “I did not say that!” he objected, appalled.  “Tony, I didn’t say that.”

Tony was grinning.  “Of course not,” he said.   _“You_ wouldn’t.”  

 _Total asshole,_ he mouthed at Jodie, forgetting to be nervous.  

She grinned even wider.  “Okay, so I’m supposed to walk you up to the third floor conference room,” she told him.  “You’re talking to half a dozen producers, there are four different shows seeing candidates today and then they get to argue over you candidates - which I’m anticipating being _hilarious,_ by the way.”  She started to walk Tony towards the elevators, and Lee casually kept pace with them.

“Do you know if Isaac’s still in town?”

She nodded, and it looked a bit odd, for some reason.  After a moment, Lee realized it was because she didn’t have a ponytail bobbing behind her today.  

“He’s not due back on set for another week,” she told him, “So you can imagine how _thrilled_ I was to be called in off my vacation to do interview intakes.”

“Sorry,” Tony said.

She rolled her eyes.  “Not your fault,” she shrugged, “There are about fifteen other candidates on the short list for this, so I’d have been here whether or not you showed up.”

“Think he’d want to get drinks later tonight?” Lee asked.

“Do I look like his secretary?  Text him and ask.”  Jodie narrowed her eyes at him, and he widened his innocently.  She gave him an eyeroll - _You’re not fooling anyone, Nicholas -_ and hit the call button for the elevator.

“Well, I would,” Lee retorted, “But the last time I asked him out for drinks, he said yes, and then decided to make out with you and stand me up.  So I thought I’d just ask you, instead, this time.”  The elevator dinged, and he led them on, holding the door until they’d all piled in.

Jodie winced.  “That was that place in Brooklyn last week, right?  Sorrrrry, we were kind of… caught up.”

Lee snorted.  “Is that what they’re calling it these days.”

She grinned vulpine at him.

“Please don’t tell me any more,” he begged.

“Well, _I_ could stand to hear it,” Tony commented with a waggle of his brows.  “Isaac’s the one who looks _so good_ as Captain America, right?”

“Honey, _please,”_ Jodie gushed, “He looks _'so good’_ basically _all_ the time.”

“I believe it,” Tony responded with enthusiasm.  This was actually his charming professional persona.  It was a lot gayer than Lee’s, but admittedly, it was almost as effective.  The doors opened, and Jodie led them down the hall to the conference room as Tony continued.  

“Did you two meet on set?”  Tony barely gave her time to nod before adding, “I think that’s _so_ romantic, the idea of an actor falling for one of the production techs…  I can’t believe no one’s tapped that for a rom com, yet.”

He wasn’t looking at Lee as he said it, and luckily, neither was Jodie - the glare Lee was throwing at Tony was not exactly subtle...

Then Tony glanced up, and just that half-second was enough to see the mischief in his eyes.  

Well, if _that_ was how they were going to be doing this...

Oh, it was _on._

Lee suddenly felt a lot better about what he was about to do.

“When do you fly out?” he asked Tony, measuring the remaining distance to the conference room doors and conversationally stalling until they got there.  “Think you could come out with us for drinks tonight?”

“You know I didn’t actually agree to come, right?” Jodie asked before Tony had a chance to say no.   _Thank you, Jodie!_

“Didn’t you?” Lee frowned in disingenuous confusion.  “Huh.  Well, _are_ you coming?”

She shrugged.  “No reason not to, I guess.  Just please, not all the way in Brooklyn, again.”

“You think your college clubs are better?”  Lee raised an eyebrow.

“Puh- _lease,_ I _know_ my clubs are better.  They have dancing, for one thing.”  Jodie waggled her eyebrows at Tony.  “Tony likes dancing, right?”

“Tony does like dancing,” he agreed, “And Lee, I don’t fly out until tomorrow.  Early, though.”  

“There you have it.”  Jodie gestured triumphantly with her clipboard.  “I’ll make sure Isaac shows.”  

Isaac was not, apparently, being given a choice in the matter.

Jodie pulled open the conference room doors, standing in front of one to prop it open.

“Fantastic.”  Lee held his hand out to Tony, and while he didn’t do anything so obvious as raise his voice or project, he made sure that Nate Gauss, standing ten feet away, could hear him clearly.  “Tony, I’ll see you tonight, and good luck.  I really hope you get it; it’d be great to work with you again.”

Tony’s eyes popped wide, and he gaped for a second before recovering - luckily, he was mostly turned away from the room, so none of the producers in there could see his startlement.  Jodie could, though, and she gave the both a sharp little grin.  Tony's gaze darted around the room, then focused in sharply again on Lee in that look he sometimes wore when he forgot to pretend he was just a spaz.

 _That was the look I first fell for,_ Lee remembered…

“Thanks,” Tony said, and he wasn’t dumb enough to raise _his_ voice, either.  He sounded a little shocked and a little sarcastic, and Lee should probably feel bad about how smug he felt about that.  And alright, Lee could maybe have warned him he was going to do this, but he hadn’t made up his mind until half a block before the building…  “I hope so, too.”  And then Tony smiled, a wicked, shit-kicking smile that, humiliatingly, caused Lee’s heart to thump and turn over in his chest.  “I had a lot of fun, ‘working’ with you.”

Lee was pretty sure no one else could hear the air-quotes - he hoped so, anyway - but  _he_ could, and they were making his spine tingle with happiness.  

They were back in their groove, alright, and it was a  _damned good groove._

He clapped Tony on the shoulder, waved to Nate, and headed out as fast as he could without running.

* * *

 

* * *

The heavyset man knows _much_ more than Apple did, and in about two minutes, he’s babbling out explanations that confirm the _incredibly stupid_ findings I’d made on my own.

“No, no, I understand what you’re saying,” I interrupt.  “I’m just having trouble believing it because it’s _so fucking stupid.”_

Heavyset guy blinks at me, offended, and behind him, Apple smirks into her gag.  “I don’t see why you would say that,” he blusters.  “It allows us to confer with our far-flung counterparts to exchange ideas and information that -”

“You upload all your data to the fucking cloud!” I shout at him.

“It’s _not the cloud,_ it’s the _HYDRA Online Uploaded Computer Compendium!”_

“That acronym sounds like puking, and also it’s fucking _stupid,”_ I insist.  “How can you keep files confidential when anyone could hack the _whole database in one go?”_

_“Our firewalls -”_

“- Won’t count for _shit_ against Stark, and you know it,” I cut him off, internally surprised at how much Lee Nicholas, apparently, knew about this.  But then, the man had _listened_ when Stark had babbled…

...because he was inherently polite.

Yeah, that wasn’t really one of my problems.  “So I can get literally _all the data_ HYDRA has on any given project if I can find the servers for the HOUCCKKH?”  I emphasize the gagging sound as I get out the acronym.

Fat guy gets huffy.   _“If_ you can find where the servers are -”

I stick my knife down his pants and smile not-really-brightly-at-all.  “Tell me where the servers are,” I order, and he gulps.

Then he tells me where the servers are.

And _then_ he tells me a lot of other things, too.

* * *

 

* * *

 

> **Lee:**  I’m an idiot 
> 
> **Steve Rogers:** Probably not.  
>  **Steve Rogers:** Why?
> 
> **Lee:**  I just asked my ex out for dancing
> 
> **Steve Rogers:**  You go dancing with your ex all the time.
> 
> **Lee:**  You know what I mean  
>  **Lee:**  The other one
> 
> **Steve Rogers:**  I know what you mean.  
>  **Steve Rogers:**  You’re not an idiot.  
>  **Steve Rogers:**  Do invite Jane and Darcy, though.  They’re in town, they’re bored silly, and they’ll even out your numbers.
> 
> **Lee:**  That’s actually a good idea  
>  **Lee:**  Jodie and Isaac are coming  
>  **Lee:**  Maybe Clint ???
> 
> **Steve Rogers:**  Yes 
> 
> **Lee:**  ...  
>  **Lee:**    
>  **Lee:**  Don’t take this the wrong way
> 
> **Steve Rogers:**  I get it.
> 
> **Lee:**  Sorry  *sad emoji*
> 
> **Steve Rogers:**  It’s okay, Lee.  
>  **Steve Rogers:**  You’re still coming to the THC party on Sunday, though, right?
> 
> **Lee:**  Try and stop me  *smile*

* * *

 

* * *

I check for cameras one last time before I leave the base, but my first sweep had gotten them all, and I didn’t find any on the second sweep either, so it’s not a surprise that there aren’t any now.  I delete all Winter Soldier files from the HOUCC-cloud, not that I expect it to make a difference.  There wasn’t much there in the first place, to be honest.  

I also purge all data on the supersoldier-serum.  Just in case.  

I leave the HYRDA jerks tied up and duct-taped to the floor; I pick up all my shell casings, and pack away all the guns; and then I leave, calling the police from Apple’s cell phone before heading out.

Foster doesn’t answer his phone, and I remember that he’s in interviews.  Elson does, and I tell him it’s done - the base is, essentially, gone.  

 _“Am I going to hear about a bunch of dead bodies tomorrow?”_ he asks, sounding tired.

I think before I answer, because Elson really is a good man who really does love the law.  “I promise,” I say finally, “that every dead body in there belongs to somebody who was actively trying to kill me before they died.”

 _“So it’s all self-defense?”_ he asks, sounding tired and skeptical at the same time.

I sigh.  “Yeah,” I say patiently, “It _was_ all self-defense.”

He’s quiet for a moment.   _“Sorry,”_ he says eventually.   _“You coming back tonight?”_

I scowl out over the dash of the stolen beemer.  “Not yet,” I say.  “Gonna head up towards Kingston for a while, first.”

Jack doesn’t say anything to that.

I sigh again, and change the subject, kind of.  “Foster almost done with his interviews, do you think?”

“Eh, it’s almost four o’clock there, right?  He’s probably pretty close.  You gonna call him?”

“He’s not answering his phone,” I say.

Elson grunts.  “Just give it time, then.  Why Kingston?”

I shrug, and don’t mention how close it is to the border.  “I heard they got a nice bed and breakfast,” I say instead, and Jack makes a rude sound before we hang up.

* * *

 

* * *

 

> **Tony:** HELP  
>  **Tony:** LEE ASKED ME OUT  
>  **Tony:**  WE’RE GOING DANCING 
> 
> **Zev:** I’m confused.
> 
> **Tony:** I’m in NYC for interviews?  I met Lee for lunch.  
>  **Tony:** Apparently he no longer hates me because he ASKED ME OUT WIHT HIS FIRENDS
> 
> **Zev:** Lee never hated you.
> 
> **Tony:** WHAT DO i DOOO? 
> 
> **Zev:** Stop being melodramatic  
>  **Zev:** Have a nice time  
>  **Zev:** And if he kisses you, get one in for me
> 
> **Tony:** Wait, get in a punch or a grope or what?  
>  **Tony:** Or an orgasm? 
> 
> **Zev:** I’ll leave that to your discretion.  
>  **Zev:** *smirking emoji*
> 
> **Tony:** UUUUUUGH!!! 

* * *

 

* * *

Foster doesn’t call me back until nearly one in the morning, by which time I am lying in bed in the creepiest bed and breakfast in all of Kingston, wearing nothing but my boxers and trying to remember New York City.  

The worst part is, I’ve been there before.  Not just _having learned_ that I grew up there, as Bucky Barnes; I’m almost positive the _Winter Soldier_ has carried out a mission or two in New York.  When I think of the smells of the place, the neighborhood I called home, all I have is one big blank, but when I think of the layout of the streets, I can pull up the map with perfect clarity.  

And I know every sightline into the World Trade Center.  

Except that’s not there anymore - Lee informs me it was destroyed over a decade ago.  Which is maybe a little bit of an explanation for why I answer the phone by asking, “Foster.  When was the World Trade Center built?”

“No idea,” Foster says, sounding nonplussed.  “How’d it go today?”

“Great,” I say tonelessly, remember the look on Apple’s face when she realized that she couldn’t remember her own name.  “You?”

Foster pauses, and his voice is softer when he answers.  “Yeah, today went great.  They can’t officially offer me the job yet, but the producer at my top pick took me aside and told me to start looking for an apartment in New York, so.”  I hear fabric rustle, most likely from a shrug.  “I also told Lee about you.  Not about the assassin part, but everything else: amnesia, secret identity, memory transfer, all that stuff.”  He pauses, breathing into the phone, and I realize sharply that he’s mildly intoxicated - he must have gone out and had a few drinks after the interviews.  

They really had gone well, then.

“...Nicholas took it well?” I prompt.

“Yeah!”  He jumps, for some reason.  “Yeah, surprisingly well, actually.  I think he’ll be an ally for you, Barnes.”  His voice is weirdly, genuinely happy, and I wonder if it’s because he doesn’t have to lie to his friend, or because he’s looking forward to introducing us.

I guess it doesn’t matter.

I squeeze my eyes, then open them again.  No sense in putting this off.

“Foster.”

“Hmmmm…  Yeah?”  Fabric rustles again - Foster getting into bed.

“When you move back to New York,” I say, my breath coming shallow over my lips, “I would like to stay with you.”

“Hmmm…” he says again.  Punches his pillow.  Then there’s a whole series of shoves and static as he throws the blankets of his hotel room bed around.  “No reason not to, I suppose,” he says finally, sounding much more awake than he had a minute ago.  One final burst of static marks a sharp exhale.  “It’ll save me money on rent, anyway.   _New York,_ eh?”

“Right,” I agree.  I stare at the spiderweb stipples in the ceiling.  “You’re flying back tomorrow,” I remember.

“Mm-hmm…”

“I’m gonna stay here,” I tell him.  "So get back to Vancouver and feed the cat for me, 'kay?"

It’s only a little bit because I’m avoiding the fucking _vampire_ that’s going to be back in Vancouver in two weeks - seems pretty pointless to go back _there_ and then right back _here_ again, and here’s where I’ll have to be to cross the border, since it’s pretty well monitored down by Toronto.

“They’ll miss you at Zev’s,” Foster yawns.  “An’ CB.”

CB is a big fan of my stuntwork:  I am safer than Daniel, and also free.

“I could find us a place in New York,” I offer.  “Have it ready for you.”

“Got one already - friend of Lee’s told me.”

Oh.  Hope they take pets.

“‘Sokay, though.  I’ll tell ‘em you’re layin’ low.  Hey, goodnight, okay?  I gotta sleep.”

I blink at the stipples again.

“Goodnight, Foster.”

We hang up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooo! *deep breath* Okay, this chapter was originally supposed to be called "Approach" - it's "Circle" now, instead - and I ditched half the plot points I was going to be hitting in it, so hopefully next chapter gets to be "approach" and I can come back and hit those then. 
> 
> Also, that last conversation over text was originally with Henry, not Zev, and it ended with Tony telling him not to use emoji's, because it's creepy. Henry responds by sending a vampire emoji, which, I discovered, is actually a real thing that exists. (I, like Steve, don't use emojis, and for similar reasons.) 
> 
> Anyway, I really liked that conversation, and only the realization that this conversation occurred around two in the afternoon, in May, prevented Henry from having it. 
> 
> Also, sorry I had Bucky torture a couple people, but you know he would have, and I was really trying to be in-character. In his defense, he made his threats really bad so that people would cooperate rather than forcing him to go through with 'em? I know, it's a pretty shitty defense.


	4. Approach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter introduces an OC named Damien; you should know that he's played in my head by Aldis Hodge.

Given it’s one of the only sources of info I have that I can observe without drawing suspicion, it seems pretty logical to watch the _Howling Commandos_ show.  Problem is, I’m staying in that shit B&B - no television in the room.  So I gather my courage and asked the handyman guy, the one who checked me in, where I can watch it, only for him to beam at me and assure me that we can watch it on his set.  

In his bedroom.  

Which is the only one in the place with HBO.

He volunteers to provide beer and food, too.

I study him pretty carefully to make sure, but I honestly don’t think he’s even hitting on me.

 

* * *

* * *

 

When the phone rang, Steve picked it up without looking away from the simulation running below him.  “Rogers here.”

“Hey, is this Steve?”  The Jersey-accented voice on the other side of the phone baffled him until he pried the phone away from his ear to check the caller ID.  It wasn’t that he was opposed to Jodie calling him, per se, it was that she had literally _never done so:_  all of their communication had been either face-to-face or over text.  (In fact, Jodie, Lee, and Isaac had been the first people in the new millennium to just assume that, even though he was ninety-five years old and had only been defrosted a year ago, he was perfectly capable communicating like a normal adult human being in the first world.  It had been… incredibly refreshing, actually.)

But that did mean it was a bit unusual for Jodie to actually give him a phone call.  “What’s wrong?  Are you okay?”  He put down his coffee and typed a command for JARVIS to hold the results of the simulation.  

“I’m good, I’m good!  Sorry.  Everything’s fine, sorry.  This is, uh…”

“Jodie?”

“It’s a favor for a friend,” she blurted.  “Sorry!  I really try not to let people know I know you, but a few of my friends have figured it out -”

“Yeah, I know, I’ve met them,” Steve said dryly.  

“No, I mean - other friends.  Hey!  I’ve got _friends_ other than those two idiots, Steve!”

“You’re dating one of those idiots, doesn’t that make you an idiot, too?”  He picked the coffee mug back up and propped a hip against the table, relaxing now that there wasn’t a threat that he would need to take care of.

“Probably, sheesh - asshole’s still in California for another month, or I’da asked him first.”

Steve grinned at the old, unused printer on the top shelf.  “Did you just say _sheesh?”_

“I can say _sheesh!_ Charming anachronisms are charming, shut up!”

He ducked his head, and obediently said nothing.

 _“Any-_ way!  One of my friends put it together, and asked me for your autograph - I said no, by the way, you don’t need that shit from your friends -”

“I’d be happy to autograph something for your friend, Jodie, it’s not a -”

“- I said _shut up,_ Steve, that is _not the end of the story -”_

“Okay, okay!”

He gestured, and JARVIS re-started the simulation.

“So Maisie, who is amaz- _ing,_ by the way, seriously, we love her - she knows I know you, and she and I and my friend Julie and a couple other friends - well, and Chad - were at this thing we do every coupla weeks.”

“You were… ‘at this thing you do’,” Steve repeated slowly, putting some skepticism in his voice.

Jodie... _paused._  “Have you heard about Dungeons  & Dragons yet?”

“No,” he said, then bit his lip.  “It’s not - It’s not a sex thing, is it?”  The dungeons were obvious; the dragons were making him nervous.

“Jesus, Steve - _no,_ it is _not a sex thing._ It’s a game.”

“That doesn’t stop it from being a sex thing.”

 _“It’s not a sex thing!”_ Jodie breathed sharply, then lowered her voice.  “It’s a game, where you make up a character, and then everybody works out a story where their characters interact.  Like, what say we decide to go to a tavern.  When we get there, my character talks to the barkeep, ‘cause my character’s really friendly.  Damien’s character starts to play her lute, ‘cause Damien’s character is a musician.  Chad’s character looks for wenches, ‘cause Chad’s a douchebag.  That kinda thing.”

“I get the impression we don’t like this Chad person.”  Steve sipped his coffee.  “This favor isn’t for him, is it?”

“Nah,” Jodie said.  “Well, kinda.  For Chad indirectly, ‘cause his girlfriend’ll be there, too - she doesn’t come to the games, she has to work most Saturday nights.  But it’s more for Damien, ‘cause Damien’s a saint in human form, seriously.  So anyway!”

“Anyway!”

“Are you mocking me, Steven Rogers?  Swear to God, I will hang up this phone!”

Steve snorted.  “I’m not mocking you, Jodie, I’m teasing you.  There’s a difference.”  

He could almost hear her pleased smile.  “...Oh,” she said, voice small, before resuming her normal tones.  “Oh, okay.  So, anyway.  My friend Damien - _and_ Chad’s girlfriend Yolanda - they’re both working a booth at this festival thing that’s happening next month.”

“Right...”

“And it’s like, the biggest thing their job does all year, they have all this merch available, it’ll be really busy and intense…”

“Mm-hmm…”

“And Damien always did it with his boyfriend.”

Steve had a bad feeling he could see where this was going.  He tilted his head back far enough to stretch the muscles in his neck.  “And why isn’t he doing it with his boyfriend this year, Jodie?” he asked, voice distorted by his position.

Jodie sighed, the disappointed sigh of someone who had never had much faith in the human race, but definitely had less now.  “Because his boyfriend is a douchebag who cheated on him, dumped him, and then went around telling everyone what a small dick he has, and now Damien - who is a _prince among men,_ I want you to know that - is thinking of quitting his job because he can’t stand to go to this thing without Asshole Jim.”

Steve kept his head tilted back, but rocked it from side to side, hoping to release some of his tension.  “And now you want me to go with Damien - who is a prince among men - because otherwise he won’t have a date.”

“I mean… kinda?  Yeah?  You wouldn’t have to be there as a _date-_ date, you could just go as a… a blind date, or something... or a friend!  You could be on a friend-date, that’s totally a real thing people do these days!”

Steve wasn’t exactly buying this line, but it hardly mattered.  “Sure,” he said.

Jodie didn’t say anything.

“Sure,” he repeated, “I’ll do it.”

There was a small wet sound over the phone, like she had opened her mouth to speak, but a breath or two went by before she said, “There’s something else.”

“Something _other_ than being your friend’s date to the festival?  Wait, you said he works this festival - would I need to be working for someone?  Who?”

“Oh, no!  Well, Asshole Jim did, but he works - worked, they fired his ass last week because - well, not important - anyway, yeah, Jim worked the booth, but that’s different, and all kinds of SO’s - significant others, I mean - hang around, and none of them do jack except look pretty.”

On the computer, JARVIS was wrapping the simulation, the numbers jumping faster as he neared the end.  “So what’s the catch?” Steve asked, watching it.

“Well…  The thing is…”  Jodie broke off with a whine, then took a deep breath and muttered to herself, “Okay, big-girl-panties, Jodie.  The thing is, the festival I’m talking about is Pride.”

Steve blinked rapidly, several times.  “What’s Pride?”

Jodie made an irritated noise that sounded like a cartoon elephant with a stopper in its nose:   _Hrr-RRNNNK!_ “How do you not know what Pride is?!” she demanded.

“I do know; I’m kidding,” Steve laughed; Jodie made another, less extravagant, noise.  “But what does your friend do, that he’s involved?”

“Oh - their company sells, like, underwear?  Pretty underwear, I mean?  Like, panties.  For men, you know?  And they get this _huge_ booth at Pride, and all kinds of people come through and just go nuts for the idea of buying this stuff which they could get for half the price over the internet, but there you go, it’s Pride, people buy shit they wouldn’t normally do.  So you’d basically be sitting in a booth at Pride all weekend, surrounded by lacy underwear, and I’m not sure that’s something you want to do?”

“Hmmm.”  Steve watched the numbers blink on the computer.  “What are my odds of being recognized, photographed, and outed, if I do this?”

Jodie breathed out with a gasping, choking sort of whine.

Steve clenched the hand not holding the phone tightly, and waited.

“Steve?” she asked.  

There was some strong emotion in her voice.  It wasn’t shock, exactly, and it wasn’t dismay.  It wasn’t fear, either, although it sounded a lot like it...

“Yes, Jodie?”

“Steve…  What, exactly, would you be coming out as?!”  

And again, it was hard to describe her voice.  That same strong emotion was all over it, but although she was speaking with force, it wasn’t a demand for information.  

It was more like excitement.

Steve breathed, carefully in,  and even more carefully out, and focused on keeping the fingers of his right hand loose on the phone.

Breathed again.  Just in case.

“I…”

Jodie waited, not prompting him.  

“I - I.”  It was just Jodie.  He’d known her for a year, and she had always, _always_ been kind.

He closed his eyes, breathed out all the air in his lungs, and tried again.  

“I like both?”

Jodie breathed out on the other end of the line, and when she spoke next, he could hear a smile all over her voice.  “That’s great, Steve.  I’m really glad you were okay to tell me that.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, feeling wrecked and twisted up inside.  “So am I.”  He exhaled with a laugh, surprised to realize that he also felt much lighter.  He had super-strength, and even so, he _still_ felt lighter.  “It was touch and go, for a minute there.”

“I could tell,” Jodie said seriously.  “Listen, maybe you’d better not go to this.  If it was that hard for you to tell me, you probably don’t want to - I mean, you’d be hanging around in a tent, not leading the parade, but you’d still be seeing a lot of people.  No one is noticeable during Pride - because everyone is - but you still don’t…  I mean, it’s a risk.”

Steve reached out and picked up the coffee cup again, taking a sip because his mouth was dry and sour.  “Jodie,” he said, watching the surface of the liquid shaking in his hand, “Do you know what I was doing when you called?”

She paused.  “No clue,” she said baldly.  “What?”

“I was running the numbers of a simulation on how successful an attack would be, if made using an unstable formula for the Extremis project, should HYDRA discover that they have access to the formula.  We’re trying to figure out which target they’re likely to hit when they realize.  

“And even if our numbers are accurate - and they involve a lot of assumptions which may or may not be true - but even _if_ they’re accurate, we still might not be able to find the detonator in time to stop him.”  He paused, tilted his head from side to side, and took another sip of coffee.  “All our simulations say that a lot of people are going to die, and there’s almost certainly nothing I can do about it.”

“Oh,” Jodie said, her voice small.

“Your friend who needs a date?” Steve tried to remember the name.  “Damien, right?  Prince among men?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s got a problem I can actually _solve.”_ He looked down at the numbers, blinking on the screen.  

A couple of them were six digits long.

“Besides which,” Steve added, forwarding the data to Tony and Hill, “A friend of mine just asked me for help.”

 

* * *

 

Tony had been right:  They did miss “Ezio Sterling” at the Howling Commandos party that Sunday.  Unfortunately - and on reflection, he probably should have seen this coming - this took the form of a lot of comments about Tony ditching his “new boyfriend” already, which…

No.  

Just no.

Tony had enough issues already, _without_ dating a guy who - ten out of ten HBO execs agreed - looked _just like_ his ex-boyfriend.

Still, everybody was good-natured about ‘Ezio,’ who, despite being almost silent the entire night the previous week, had managed to be a hit with the group.  (“His _face,”_ Tina explained, not particularly clearly.)  The group took a video of themselves settling in to watch the film - Tony himself was jet-lagged, with a whole moving van’s worth of bags under his eyes, but looked cheerful enough in the video - and Tony sent it out on his phone.

Barnes sent him a smiley-face in return.

_Nice._

 

* * *

* * *

 

Handyman-guy is very nice about inviting me in, including offering beer and chicken wings, and he doesn’t seem to notice when my fuckin’ _face_ appears in the credits.  I shake my hair down over my cheeks, anyway, and scrunch back in my chair.  The local cat comes over during that creepy fucking song they decided to open with, and puts one paw on my knee, studying me carefully before hopping into my lap.  He’s heavy as hell, but he purrs nice and loud when I pet him.

Hopefully, Purza’s doing okay with Foster.  

Not that I miss her.

Or him.

Much.

Nothing earth-shattering happens in the show.  I mean, it kinda does:  Captain America recruits the team of losers he dragged out of that factory; he gets clearance for them to operate as a desegregated, multi-national unit; Phillips is told by his superior officers that the first time these yahoos mess up, they’re toast (not the exact words used, but it was still probably a conversation that really happened); and they all head out to start their first mission.  Also, there’s some kind of love triangle building up between Rogers and Carter and the me-character, but I ain’t convinced I was ever head over heels for Carter, so I take that with a grain of salt.  

The part that _is_ interesting, to me, comes from Nicholas’ acting, mostly.  He keeps doing this thing where he’s charming and laughing with Rogers, but kinda sullen and withdrawn around the rest of the Howlies, and when nobody’s looking, he just looks _lost._

It’s almost like he _knows_ he isn’t going home…

I text Foster:   _Do you think it was really like that?_

I pet the cat again with my right hand; the left clenches into my thigh hard enough to bruise.  The cat gives the gloved metal a disdainful look, then licks the flesh hand until I pull away from his sandpaper-surfaced tongue.

My phone buzzes:   _What do you mean?_

I rest the phone against my chest as I take one of the few remaining chicken wings out of the bowl between Handyman Guy and me, but mostly I glare at it instead of eating; after a minute, I set down the wing, pick up the phone, and respond.

_He’s so hopeless when nobody’s looking._

When Foster answers, I can almost hear his disparaging snort:   _Dude.  You STILL look like that._

 _...Well, fuck,_ I think, as the cat lifts his head and bites my hand.  “Hey,” he asks, sniffing at the chicken wing, “Are you going to eat that?”

I glare at the cat, and stuff the entire chicken wing in my mouth.  “Yesh,” I say around it, glaring.

Cat digs his claws in as he jumps off my lap, stalking away with his tail in an indignant twitch.

Delicately, I pull the bone out - now clean of meat - and put it on my plate.  Handyman Guy, I realize belatedly, is staring at me warily.  

“What?” I ask aggressively, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Nothin’,” he answers, eyes flicking to the white cat-butt disappearing around the corner.  

Listen, I’m a ninety-year old amnesiac assassin with a metal arm, buddy.  The talking cat ain’t exactly a big deal.

“Will you be wantin’ the last wing, then?”

I will, thank you.

 

* * *

* * *

 

He might have been willing to risk the Pride festival for Jodie, but Steve wasn’t planning to be stupid about it:  he was going in disguise, and while Jodie’s friend, who Steve now always thought of as Prince Damien, would be told Steve’s identity, he would _not_ be told that Steve was there as anything other than a favor.  In other words, the version of the story Prince Damien was getting was that Jodie, appalled by the treatment of her friend, persuaded Captain America to come hang out with him all day to cheer him up.

Steve tried to comfort himself with the reassurance that this was, actually, the case.

When that failed, he tartly reminded himself that he had barely even been able to tell _Jodie_ about his orientation, and she had done everything but paint herself with rainbow glitter and dance around his apartment with a sign that read _I support you no matter who you are._ In fact, Steve had literally not told anyone in this century except Clint, Lee and Isaac, although he suspected that both Tony and Natasha had figured it out.  

It seemed backwards, somehow.  Tony, okay, Tony might be considered a security risk for this - he was certainly open enough about his own affairs - except that Tony was, for all his in-your-face tabloid-courting, a master of keeping secrets.  And, Steve remembered guiltily, had held classified contracts for _years,_ even prior to the Afghanistan debacle.  

On the other hand, Steve wasn’t sure Tony would think his sexual orientation rated the same level of confidentiality as the specs to the Jericho…

 _And I would really like to_ not _find out the hard way!_

Natasha, though:  Nat should know.  And, yes, Steve was reasonably sure that she already _did,_ but there was a difference between her knowing because she had read it on his face and her knowing because he told her.  

She already knew; she _had_ to already know.  She was _Nat._ There was _no reason_ not to tell her.  

Steve shoved his chair away from the wall and fumbled his way towards his bed, climbing in and pulling his knees up to his chest, locking his arms around them.  He breathed as deeply as he could, in and out, feeling the stretch in his back where it curled around his knees, shoving harder and harder against his shins until the pressure of the position gave him something to push against.  In and out, he breathed, in and out, in and out.  

In and out.  In... and out...

In... and out...

In…

...and out…

...On second thought, maybe he wouldn’t tell Nat just yet.

He let his head fall to the bed first, then rolled out so that he was lying on his back with his legs spread and his arms flung out to either side.

“I trust her to save my life,” he asked the ceiling.  “Why is this different?”

“Sir?”

Steve closed his eyes.  “Sorry, JARVIS.  Talking to myself.”

“Indeed, sir.”

...maybe he’d tell Sam.

Steve braced himself for the upsurge of panic at the thought, only to be completely baffled when it failed to come.  

“What the _heck?”_ he blurted.  “Not you, JARVIS.”

“So I gathered, sir.”

Why was _Natasha_ scarier than Sam?

... Other than the obvious bodily-harm-related reasons, obviously.  

To be fair, though, Steve had essentially _always_ felt able to trust Sam.  He had seen him jogging along, lapped him twice, and, from the moment Sam called him out on what was, admittedly, “troll” behavior, had believed Sam would tell him the truth, would accept him, would do the right thing…

But he trusted Natasha to do that, too.  Well, maybe not the telling the truth part.  The accepting him part, though.

She would definitely do that.

Maybe he would tell Sam, and see how that went.  And if it went well, he could tell Natasha, too.  

As a plan, it felt a lot better than telling Nat first.  Steve still didn’t have a clue why not, but at this point, he was willing to give up and just accept the conclusion he was drawing: if his subconscious was this clear about telling Sam first, who was he to argue?

 

* * *

* * *

 

The problem is, Foster isn’t scheduled to move to New York for another month.  The show he’s getting hired at - and I try not to admit I’m worried about him working on _my show,_ because that’s clearly irrational and ridiculous, and if he fucks it up we’re back to the plan that involves stabbing _-_ doesn’t start filming until the first week of August, but Foster plans to move a couple weeks before that to get settled in.  He somehow has an apartment all picked out, because Lee Nicholas knows the archer, who has an apartment in Bed Stuy, and who is apparently willing to let Foster live there sight unseen because he knows Nicholas.

 _“It’s not sight unseen, I’ve met him twice now!  He came to Vancouver with Lee once, and we went dancing together last night before running off to Bed Stuy to see the place.  Which is_ fine, _by the way, plenty of space.”_  

_“So it’s big enough for both of us?” I wondered into the phone._

_“I notice you’re assuming I’m okay with you continuing to live with me.”_

_“Trust me,” I scoffed, “If you’re moving to Bed Stuy, you want someone like me to live with you.”_

_“Okay, but -”_

_“Is there enough room for the cat?” I interrupted, and Foster snorted, not successfully distracted, but willing to spot me the subject change._

_“Sure,” he said, voice bitchy, “There’s plenty of room for_ your _cat.”_

So that was that.  No need to pick out a place, no way to move in ahead of Foster without alerting the archer guy - which I am _not_ planning on doing - and nothing to do in the fuckin’ mean time.  

It’s making me _crazy._  Literally - I’m pretty sure the laundry machine was trying to talk to me the other day.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Sam liked high places.  And, really, considering the wings, that shouldn’t have been surprising - the man _literally_ spent his days flying around with a jetpack, a head for heights was not the strangest part of that - but at the same time, Steve felt like knowing it was like knowing a secret.  Not that Sam’s taste for the geographically elevated actually _was_ a secret - it just _felt_ like one.

Nevermind; Steve would take it.

So when he went to plan how to tell Sam about himself, putting them in the air was an obvious first step.  Unfortunately, he couldn’t find a good way to plan the next step.  It was nerves - he _knew_ it was nerves - but the top of Avengers Tower didn’t require the wings, the top of the Empire State Building was too romantic (Sam might think he was hitting on him), the top of any other building was too contrived, a tree was stupid, a cliff was ridiculous, and they were constantly monitored by the other Avengers during practice.

Finally, Steve threw his hands up and resolved that he would just blurt it out the next time they went flying, no matter _when_ that was.

 

* * *

 

Given the recent mess with HYDRA, it was almost reassuring to deal with a regular old AIM.   _Comforting, really,_ Steve thought as he realized that the bomb was going to go off in eleven seconds and he would be better off not on the plane when it did so.  “I could use a lift,” he told his comm before grabbing throwing himself through the airplane door.  

“I see you,” he heard Sam say in his comm, “And I got you.”

Half a minute later, Sam looked at Steve incredulously as he carried him nimbly through a missile barrage; when he spoke, he had to shout to be heard over the explosions.   _“Did you really have to tell me that RIGHT NOW?!”_

 

* * *

 

 _“Fuck!”_ Tony startled when the phone rang, grabbing his dinner, but the freshly-microwaved wonton soup proved surprisingly hot:  He dropped it, bobbled for the bowl that had just slipped out of his hand, missed it, and reflected ruefully that it would be _really nice_ if “Come to me” worked on liquids as he watched his soup spilled out on the floor.

Well, it did work on liquids, actually…  It was just that once summoned, they didn’t stay put, and he would have wound up with wontons on his face instead of the carpet.

_Some days, I just can’t win…_

He looked at the stain spreading across his floor, sighed, and answered the phone while digging for a clean towel.  “Tony Foster speaking.”  He shoved the drawer shut and dropped to his knees by the stain.

“...I take it you aren’t checking your caller ID these days.”  Henry’s mellifluous voice stopped him in his tracks, the smooth familiarity of it washing over him like a hot bath.  

“Jesus, Henry, am I glad to see you!”

“You can see me?”

Tony rolled his eyes and started blotting the carpet again.  “You know what I mean.  Thing’ve been happening; I’ve missed you.”

“I’m flattered.”  Henry’s voice was dark with meaning, but his pointed smile carried clearly in his tone.

Tony rolled his eyes again.

“Jesus, Henry - you’re so _extra.”_

“Extra?”

“Extra _vampy.”_ Tony scowled at the brown water as he wrung out the towel, realizing the probable cause of the extra-ness.  “I guess you missed me, too, huh?”

“I did.”  

It was the verbal equivalent of Henry’s familiar princely nod, and Tony tried to pretend he wasn’t smiling at the towel like a dope when he heard it.  

When he spoke again, Henry’s voice was lighter, more brisk.  “CB said you gave notice?”

Tony grinned.  “Yeah, I got hired for _The Howling Commandos!”_

“For the _what?!”_

“The HBO show?   _THC,_ or _The Howling Commandos?_   _Lee’s_ new show?”

He could almost hear Henry’s imperial eyebrow raising.  “Oh, really.”

“Stop that.  It’s _HBO._ They have a _props_ budget bigger than all of CB Productions.  And I’m a TAD, with promise of AD next season if things go well - that’s _huge,_ I would have taken so many more demotions to get in at HBO.”  All that, and a competitive salary and relocation package.  Tony really didn’t know what he was going to do with himself.

“And you said it’s _Lee’s_ new show?  Who’s he playing?  Barnes?”

Tony laughed in surprise.  “So you _have_ seen the promos.”

“Not exactly, but there’s a certain physical resemblance.”

“You should watch it sometime - I’ll have to re-watch the whole thing for work reasons, anyway.  They start with this absolutely _killer_ opening…”  He described the transition from historical images to living actors as he pulled open his laptop and ordered a replacement dinner without thinking too hard about whether it was _lucky_ or _pathetic_ that his browser already had his pizza order saved in it.  “And you should see the _costuming_ for this thing, I swear half of Captain America’s uniforms are hand-stitched.”

Henry was silent for a moment, then said, “...You must be excited about it.”

Tony threw himself sideways on the couch.  “It’s so _amazing,_ Henry.  They walked me through the plot for this season, it’s going to be _so good…_  The only other thing I would want that they’re not doing is that _somebody_ on that team _has_ to have been gay, and they aren’t doing any of them that way.”

“Oh?”

“Come on, seven commandos, Stark, Phillips, Carter…  Plus half a dozen recurring characters, like Private Lorraine or Doc Hardy…  Odds being what they are, _one_ of ‘em has to have been less than completely straight.”  There were even a lot of theories that Rogers and Barnes were, but of course that had never been confirmed…  “But when I asked about it, they said they didn’t want to do anything that could open them up to a libel case - which it _couldn’t -_ and that while they’re willing to ‘ship tease’ it, they aren’t going to be coming out and saying, _that’s how it was.”_

“Steve Rogers wasn’t gay, in any case,” Henry pointed out.

“‘Cause of Carter, yeah, but you of all people know that bisexuals exist, Henry.  And they could throw the LGBT community a freaking _bone_ on this one - Captain America is really important to a lot of us.”

Henry paused again, and if he weren’t a vampire, Tony would have been able to listen to him breathing.  There was a small wet sound as Henry opened his mouth, but another pause before he spoke again.  “I’ve heard you say that before,” he observed.  “It’s almost as if you were speaking of yourself, personally.”

It was Tony’s turn to be quiet.

“He…”  He sighed, and pulled the laptop into his lap again, opening it to the Spider Solitaire which he’d started actually playing in recent months, but he didn’t try to move any cards just now.  “He was, I guess.  When I was younger?

“You know my Dad kicked me out when I was fifteen…”

Henry growled, not exactly in acknowledgement, but close enough that Tony could pretend that was what it had been.  “Well, before that happened, Captain America was about the only gay icon I sneak into my _life_ without basically getting the shit beat out of me.  I mean…  He was so _manly,_ you know?  And half the posters of him wind up looking like pinups whether they were intended to or not…  But he was a ‘man’s man’ to a lot of people, and my parents were among them, so…”  Tony shrugged, uncomfortable.  “I had a lot of posters, let’s just say that.  And the idea that _someone like him_ could also be _someone like me…_ It meant…  a lot.  It meant _so_ much, okay?”

Henry didn’t interrupt him, waiting until he was done.  When it was clear Tony had come to a stop, he said, “Steve Rogers was a hero because, even when he was sure he wouldn’t make a difference, he tried to do the right thing, anyway.  He was a man who was sure of his own insignificance, and was willing to sacrifice himself for others because of that.  And he was a man it was easy to overlook, for much of his life:  small, and sickly, and poor.  And, yes, bisexual, in a time when the word wasn’t even being used.

“But he cared, even when the world told him he shouldn’t - told him he didn’t have the right.  And he fought on.  And when he gained the ability to do so much more than he ever could before, he immediately turned around and used that ability to make as much difference as possible.”

Tony considered what Henry might be saying.

“So… you think he’s a good… role model?”

Henry snorted pointedly.  “So I think the two of you have some things in common.”

Tony blushed, rubbing his cheek down into the couch cushions, glad Henry couldn’t see him.  “Thanks,” he mumbled awkwardly.

“You’re welcome,” Henry said formally.

After a moment, he added, “Also, you and he both have world-class asses.”

 

* * *

 

Apart from Steve’s timing - which, admittedly, could have been better - Sam didn’t especially have any problem with Steve being…  

Okay, well, terminology was a problem.

Steve didn’t like “bisexual” - thought it sounded like he _had_ both organ sets, rather than being _interested_ in both - and “queer” had a loaded enough history that Steve thought he would probably be chided for using it in public; better to just never develop the habit.  On the other hand, he certainly wasn’t straight or gay _,_ either:  he’d been passionately in love with Peggy Carter, and had pined for Bucky for a depressingly long time, so Steve figured he probably was _what was meant_ by the word bisexual.  

He just didn’t _like_ the word.

Anyway.

Whatever he was, Sam didn’t have a problem with it.  Had, in fact, offered to go with him to meet this “Prince Damien” character (after laughing at the name, which: fair).  

“Now the big question,” Sam asked.  “Who else knows?”

They were back on the ground, and back in the tower, drinking root beer in Steve’s living room.  It was precisely where he’d been sitting with Lee, in fact, before they got together, and Steve is trying not to read anything into that.  

For one thing, he was almost certain that there’s nothing to read.

“Lee and Isaac,” Steve answered Sam now.  “They found out - we were talking about it for the show.”

“Okay,” Sam nodded encouragingly.  

“Because of Barnes.”

“I figured.”  He was still nodding, aluminum can hanging carelessly from his long fingers, fingers whose paler undersides flashed at Steve like a wink.

Steve squared his shoulders and propped his legs up on the coffee table.  “And then Jodie, because she asked me to come, and I had to explain -”

“Right, that you ran the risk of being outed.  But you’re going anyway?”

“I thought I could do it in drag?” Steve offered, hesitant.

Sam blinked.  

A lot.

“You - Okay, you know what?”  Sam shook his head, clearly deciding to put the question of whether or not Steve was into drag - obviously, he was - aside.  “That works.  You _could_ do it in drag, you’re not that recognizable once you’re out of uniform, anyway.  Plenty of fit guys in drag at Pride, you’ll blend right in.”

“Right,” Steve nodded, relieved.  “And even if I do get photographed, no one’s going to be running _every photo from Pride_ through a facial recognition software.”

“I’m proud of you, Steve.  That’s a good plan.”  Sam lifted a lazy left hand and swatted him on the right shoulder, and Steve gave a relieved bark of laughter.

“Right,” he said again.  “So Isaac, Lee, and Jodie - plus Clint.”

“You told _Clint?”_ Sam looked surprised.

“Should I not have?”

Then Steve winced, and tried again, this time without the defensive snap in his voice:  “I mean, is there some reason I _shouldn’t_ tell Clint?”

“Not that I know of,” Sam shrugged.  “I just didn’t figure you two were that close.”

“Oh!  Oh, we’re not.  Clint figured it out.”

Sam’s eyebrows skyrocketed, and he had that incredulous smile back on his lips, the one that Steve had been so charmed by the first time he ever sassed Sam.  “He _figured it out?”_ he snorted.  “From _what,_ your taste in drinks?”

“C’mon, Sam, it’s not like I’m drinking - what the hell _was_ that thing you had last weekend, anyway?”

“A _Long Island Iced Tea,_ Steve, they are _strong as Hell,_ and do not try to make this about me.  This is not about me, this is about _you_ and your girly-ass _gin and tonic_ with _extra, extra fruit.”_

Steve opened his mouth to refute the charge, remembered that he’d first gotten that drink at a gay bar, and shut it again.

“...And Peggy,” he said instead, continuing the list, “Plus any of the guys I slept with who are still, you know… _around._ Don’t look at me like that, there weren’t many.”

“Hey, no - that’s cool.  I’m trying to adjust to my new mental image of you, that’s all, and my _previous_ mental image includes a guy who flirts about as well as Tony Stark does _humility_ .  Which is _not much,_ in case you wondered, by the way.  So it’s a bit of a surprise that you might have had enough partners to still have a pool of ‘em hanging around.” 

Steve smiled, crushing his empty can and arcing it into the garbage bin.  “You’re not wrong,” he admitted.  “I think all three of the guys I - you know - they basically all just tripped me up and sat on my dick.”

Sam _cackled._

“No, okay, it wasn’t that bad, but - let’s just say, none of ‘em was very subtle.”

“So what you’re saying is, you _still_ can’t flirt.”

“Well, I tried it on you, and you didn’t even notice, so…”  Steve spread his hands in a _What can you do?_ gesture, and Sam laughed again, then laughed even harder as he thought back.

“Oh my God, is that what that _was?  ‘I think you’re cute, I’ma gonna lap you sixteen times and then make fun of you?’_ Where did you get your skills, kindergarten?”

“Pssht - we didn’t have kindergarten.  We were too poor, and it was too German.”

Sam spluttered.  “Is that - wait, are you fucking with me right now?  Or is that for real?”

Steve waggled his eyebrows.  “You’ll never know,” he said loftily.

“Man, shut the hell up.  Hey, while you’re in the kitchen - grab me another beer?”  Sam held up his empty root beer can with a hopeful expression.

Steve laughed and grabbed it, pitching it towards the trash can before launching himself to his feet.  “I can’t believe,” he said, studying the lightness in his chest and shaking his head, _“how much_ better I feel.  Every time I tell someone else, it’s like…”  He shrugged.  “Like getting over pneumonia, or something.  Geeze.”

He casually reached up and tapped the top of the doorframe as he passed into the kitchen, snagging two root beers and taking them back in with him.  

“So, here’s a question,” Sam started when he was back beside him on the couch.  He nodded a _thanks!_ for the cold can.  “If you know Clint figured it out, why isn’t _Natasha_ on the list of people who know?”

Steve grimaced, and avoided answering by taking a long draw of his drink, and rearranging his legs on the couch again.  “I think she does know,” he finally offered.  “I just… haven’t asked her.”

“Uh-huh.”  Sam offered him a slow blink.  “And are you planning on changing that at any point?”

Steve grimaced again.  “...I’ll tell her next,” he muttered, feeling his chest close up against it, the lightness falling away.

 

* * *

* * *

 

It only takes a few hours to smuggle all my gear over the border, and after some deliberation, I call the Guest House, tell them I’ll be out for a few days but to leave the room alone, and start hitching my way into New York City.  I look like the worst kind of bad news, and I don’t get many rides, but it’s not hard to cover the remaining distance on foot.

I stash the load of weapons, mostly guns but a few spare grenades, along with some surveillance equipment - now unfortunately outdated - and a bunch of fake papers in an abandoned train depot in Jersey.  It’s close enough to the city that I’ll be able to pick my gear up in a hurry, but far enough out that none of the Avengers are going to stumble over it.  

Plus, the rail lines get me in and out of the city well below the majority of the surveillance equipment.  Every time the stone tunnel closes over my head, I find myself relaxing a little, feeling safer.

It’s an illusion, of course, but hell, I think I’ve fuckin’ earned some illusion in my life.

So I stash my stuff, spend the night curled in the warm, moist belly of the old station, and emerge into a world that blinks in the light of a new dawn.  The gas station down the corner still has its flickering, neon signs on, but the floodlights are off; the diner up the street has the sleepy, stumbling form of a cook - from the looks of things, still working off the previous night’s excesses - heading in to start the morning’s work.  The birds are starting that annoying-as-shit chirping they do - the one from the morning, when the sun is not up, but is thinking about maybe being up some time in the next hour.  For whatever reason, I’ve noticed that the birds are always _extra loud_ in the morning; possibly god’s revenge on those who stay out too late, possibly just some trick of the light, and _fuck it all, anyway._

I head my grumpy ass into the diner to get some god damned coffee.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Lee got the call from Nate Gauss at eight o’clock in the morning, which he frankly considered unfair.  

“We hired your friend,” Nate said, without even saying _hi_ first.  

Lee rolled out of bed, hitting the floor in a welter of blankets with a _fwump._ “I heard,” he croaked, then cleared his throat.  “Tony said it wasn’t official, but…”

“Is he as good as this Chester Bane guy says?” Nate demanded.  “Because we haven’t told him it’s _THC,_ yet; we can always shove him off on something else, but if he’s as good as Bane says…”

“CB was bragging?” Lee asked.

“All over the place, yeah.”

“Huh.”  Lee rolled over in his pile of blankets and scratched at his stomach.  “That seems unlike him.  Not that Tony isn’t that good - he’s actually really, really good at his job - but CB isn’t really the sort to brag.”

Nate was quiet for a second, thinking about it.  “Did your friend piss him off in some way?  Because sending him to us would be one way to get rid of him.”

“Probably not.”  Lee grimaced, as much to stretch his face as in confusion.  “It’s possible, I suppose.  Unlikely, though.”  He thought about it some more.  “Tony’s done a few favors for CB over the years - babysits his daughter, for one thing, which, considering that Brianna’s a nightmare, is a pretty major favor - so maybe this is paying that back?”  The arcane implications began to occur to him, and he added, “He probably wants the debt paid before Tony leaves town.”

“Hmmm.”  Nate thought about it for another minute, then said, “Thanks, Lee,” and hung up.  

For a New Yorker, it was almost polite.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Coffee does actually make things better.  

It shouldn’t - if I’ve got the serum, then no naturally-occurring substance, be it caffeine, nicotine, morphine, or booze, should be affecting me - but somehow, holding the hot mug (an actual, cheap-as-shit china mug, not that styrofoam crap the sandwich shop in Albany had insulted me with), tucking into oatmeal and eggs-over-easy (which were supposed to be eggs-over-medium, but I know what state the cook is in, so I’ll give him a break), I feel…

Huh.

Warm.  

Safe.  

Belonging.  

(Belonging to _what?_  No clue.)

Well, whatever.

Put it down to a miracle of breakfast.

Letting go of the mug leaves me vaguely depressed.  Still, I made the time to come down here.  I might as well put the visit to good use.

My burner phone is one of the cheapest options that was available, but it did come with  the ability to connect to the internet.  Renewed by the Miracle Oatmeal, I fire up my connection and start planning.  

The first problem is how _damned good_ it felt to take out that base in Toronto.  

I am not a blank slate, no matter what the fancy artistic term is for memory loss.  I’m more like an undyed hunk of fabric, and if I want to know what I’m made of, I’d better start testing.  Try this dye and that dye; burn a little, see how it smells.  Sooner or later, I’ll know if I’m silk or wool, chenille or cashmere.  Plain cotton or linen, calico or burlap.

But I’m finding, as I dip myself in the purple dye, in the green, in the blue, that the only color that I can really hold fast is the red.

I am way too good at killing people.

Torturing Apple was easy - _too_ easy - it felt clear, like a fresh mountain stream, moving fast and hard and cold, but simple and straightforward.  Problem is, the stream in question isn’t really like that; instead, it’s a muddy sewage leak, and here I was taking a bath in it.

What does it say about me, that I felt most like myself when I was being a monster?

If that’s all I am - if all I can be is the scary mask that comes for you in the night - then fuck it, the people hunting me will be right to take me down.  I don’t know what I’m doing, but if all I’m doing is soaking my cloth in darker and darker hues, then maybe it’s time to take out the cutting sheers.

I’m not there yet, though.

And before I decide I _am_ there, maybe I’d better limit my targets to guys I know are assholes, anyway.  

So, clearly, I’ve gotta take out HYDRA.

 

* * *

* * *

 

On Sam’s advice, Steve invited Natasha to go with him to the coffeeshop where he was supposed to be meeting Jodie and her friend Damien at ten o’clock that Monday.  Steve told her and Sam to meet him at quarter past nine, thereby allowing him time to settle in, get his coffee, and share the biggest secret he had right now, before meeting a total stranger and potentially letting the same secret slip to him.

 _Maybe not the most optimistic way to frame that sequence,_ Steve chided himself, picking up his bearclaw and squeezing into the chair closest to the fireplace.

He’d been in place for all of thirty seconds when Natasha flopped down next to him,, looking ebullient.

Steve froze, a bite of bearclaw half-chewed in his mouth, a sliced almond stuck to the corner of his lip.  “...What?” he tried to say without opening his mouth.

(It didn’t work very well.)

Natasha rolled her eyes and threw a napkin at his head.

Swallowing, Steve tried again.   _“What?”_

In return, Nat rolled her eyes again.  

Which _wasn’t helpful, Nat!_

“This is _that_ conversation, isn’t it?” she asked, husky voice excited.

 _“What_ conversation?” he asked, taking another enormous bite of bearclaw.

She snorted.  “The one where you tell me you’re gay,” she said impatiently, and Steve choked on pastry.

“I’m not -!” he started, too loud.  Heads turned around the coffee shop, and he dropped his voice.  “I’m not gay,” he insisted for her ears only.

She was unimpressed by the declaration, one brow raising in an imperially dubious manner.  

And, hell: she’d already gotten _this_ far…

“...I’m bi,” Steve finished apprehensively.

Then he grimaced.

“You know, I still don’t like that word.”

Nat waved it off with a hand that skimmed casually through the air a foot above the table; meanwhile, underneath the table where it was hidden by their bodies, she rested a gentle hand on his knee and squeezed, firmly.  “You could have just told me, you know.”

Her voice was artwork in its complexity:  hurt by his reticence, frustration at his silence, wry awareness of all the reasons that telling her, even now, had been hard, humor at them both…  

Steve gave her back an expression which, almost as complex, had a lot of the same themes.  “I did just tell you,” he pointed out.  

She didn’t actually smile, but her mouth twitched, and suddenly her dimples were visible.

Then she threw another napkin at him.

“Damn it, Romanoff!”

He scooped the napkin out of the air and launched it back; it _snapped_ as it caught the air resistance and shredded six inches from her face.

To be fair, he probably deserved to be laughed at this much…

Steve got five of the six pieces of the napkin picked up, and bent down to grab the sixth one from under the table - no need to be a slob, people were eating, here.  When he came back up, Natasha was holding the other half of his bearclaw, examining it at close range.

She met his gaze…

...He narrowed his eyes…

...and she stuffed the entire half-bearclaw into her mouth like a chipmunk.  

“Damn it, Nat!” he hissed, glaring.

Even with her cheeks bulging, she still managed to smirk at him.

 

* * *

* * *

 

My next biggest problem is the Avengers.  Pretty sure, no matter what anybody says, that they’re gonna take it poorly if the Winter fuckin’ Soldier shows up on their doorstep, or in their way.  And if things head South, I’m going to wind up taking out some folks who are pretty unambiguously good guys - which, for the record, puts them way ahead of me.  But I’m not willing to just throw my handkerchief in the air and press my metal arm to my forehead as I faint, either. Best - simplest, most achievable - to stay out of their way.

If I’m taking on HYDRA - and I am - then there’s bound to be some times when I trip over them.  So:

  1. How to determine where the Avengers are going to be?
  2. How to detect them if I do trip over them?
  3. How to evade them if they show up by surprise?
  4. How to escape if captured.



As near as I can tell, the answer are:

  1. The Avengers are doing the same basic thing I’m doing, only they’re doing it with backup, better intel, legal authority, righteousness, and medevacs as necessary.  So basically, anywhere I want to go, I can count on them being there.  The places they most want to go are going to be my own primary targets, so if I stick to secondary targets, I’ve got up to about a lemur’s chance in a roomful of rocking chairs of making it work.
  2. Iron Man, the Hulk, Thor, and, most of all, Steve Rogers:  the Avengers ain’t known for being quiet.
  3. Maintain continuous surveillance; only complete objectives which can be achieved with multiple routes of egress at all times.  Monitor Avengers’ frequencies.  That last requires figuring out which frequencies, exactly, they use, so I’ll probably just wing it until then.
  4. The Widow and the archer - and I hate, _hate,_ that I’m probing Lee Nicholas’ memories more than my own, for this - are the quiet ones, the _only_ ones likely to get the drop on me at any point.  They’re also the two baseline humans, though - even Stark, given the suit, counts as Enhanced - and the problem with sneaky folks, myself included, is that we tend to be weak to the direct approach.  The best way to take out a spy isn’t with a trap, or a sniper; the best way to take out a spy is before landing or after takeoff, with a surface-to-air missile.  Collateral damage, yes, but it gets the job done.



So I’m pretty sure I can count on my enhanced strength to bully my way out.  

 

* * *

* * *

 

Jodie and Prince Damien showed up ten minutes early, and Steve made a small, gut-punched sound that had Nat looking over in sharp concern.

Nothing was wrong, though; it was just that Jodie’s friend Damien was _gorgeous._

He was tall and black, a midnight hue that almost had elements of purple in it where the light hit, blue under his cheekbones and in the shadows of his clavicles.  His shoulders were broad, but slumped in a way that spoke of a lifetime spent indoors; nevertheless, he was well-formed, and Steve thought he had the sort of physique that indicated time spent in a gym, rather than activity or heavy lifting.  His nose was straight, his chin slightly jutted.

He was also gaping at Steve in recognition, resignation turning to excited delight as he realized exactly who Jodie had found for him.

“Here we go,” Nat muttered, and Steve just nodded.

Jodie greeted them both with hugs, and while that was something she sometimes did, Steve also thought she might be showing off a little bit.  

“- And this is Damien!” she finished off her greeting, and Steve held out his hand.

“A prince among men, I’ve heard.”  Steve smiled, and Prince Damien looked stunned.

“Yeah, I’m - Oh my god, I didn’t mean it like that!  This is - It’s _such an honor to meet you,_ oh my god -”  His voice was soft and breathy, almost lispy in that way that gay men had embraced in this modern age, and higher-pitched than Steve had expected, given his general size.  

“Well, you may be a prince, but I’m just a punk kid from Brooklyn, so the honor is all mine,” Steve said firmly.  “Let’s sit down, and talk out how we’re going to do this.”

They scuttled around the table, settling into chair, Steve and Natasha on the side by the fireplace, Jodie and Damien across from them.

“The problem is,” he said once Natasha and Damien had introduced themselves to each other, “I’m not particularly eager to go answering questions about my sexuality on national television.”

Damien winced.  “Oh my god, _sweetie, no,_ we don’t want that,” he agreed instantly.  “But honey, _look,_ I’m just flattered that you even considered it, honestly.  I can’t believe Jodie even _asked_ you - oh, who am I kidding, of course Jodie would, she’s a total BAMF, bless her heart - but seriously, I completely understand -”

“I’m not entirely sure you do,” Steve cut him off, smiling because cutting off Damien was a little like kicking a puppy and he wanted the kick to at least be as gentle as possible.  He explained the plan - that he go in drag - and Damien’s face lit up again with uncomplicated glee.  

“Honey, _yes,”_ Prince Damien breathed, and from then on it was just a matter of assigning costume and codename.  (Steve eventually talked them into letting him be Daisy Stevens, and tried not to look _too_ overly pleased with himself.)

Natasha got entirely too invested in picking out his clothes; Damien offered him an employee discount on underwear.

Jodie just beamed.

 

* * *

* * *

 

The last challenge is picking a target.  Naturally, the HOUCC (I make gagging sounds, but mentally, to avoid upsetting the waitress) is a pretty tempting fucking donut - easy to consume, high caloric value if intel were calories, and won’t be around for fuckin’ ever because the Avengers are gonna want to go after it.  But there’s also a base in Chicago, one in Cleveland, _five_ in Texas (what the _fuck_ \- Dallas, El Paso, Austin, Houston, and Dallas again because fuck it, why not?  Seriously, HYDRA, _why?_ ), one in Colorado Springs basically mixed in with the military base there, one in Sacramento for some goatfucking reason, and _three_ bases scattered through the Mojave Desert.  A dozen bases posing as cults in the Midwest and the Dust Bowl - places where a cult is not particularly a surprise - house military personnel, as well as presumably a shitload of arms and munitions.  Training facilities, basically:  smart, I grudgingly admit.

All told, if I want to be back in New York as soon as Tony Foster arrives, I have a bit less than a month to select my targets, hit them, and get back to New York.

 

* * *

* * *

 

In spite of his nerves, Steve had a hell of a good time at Pride.

Part of it was Damien.  Once he got over his fluster at going to the festival with _Captain America_ \- Steve mentally rolled his eyes - Damien turned out to be a genuinely wonderful individual: caring, compassionate, and gentle, he was the sort of person who volunteered on the weekends at his local food pantry, and again during the week with his local high school’s Alliance.  He didn’t go out, he told Steve apologetically, so he didn’t know much about “the scene,” but he cared a lot about making sure “boys like me have someone to look up to, someone who’s been there, right?”  (Steve smiled, and reflected privately that he could use an ally like that, himself.)

(And okay:  there was a troll-like part of Steve - a part of _Daisy Stevens -_ that was having a lot of fun being surrounded by sexy underthings for men, totally unrecognized because he was wearing a tube top and a miniskirt.  

That was pretty much never going to get old.)

But part of the reason Steve had such a good time at Pride was just…   _Pride._ While Steve - Daisy - found himself a bit glad that he was hanging out with a bunch of vendors, _working_ the PrideFest - the noise and parade and all were just way _too much -_ he was still blown away by how _happy_ everyone was:  sharp and defiant, joyous, celebratory, radical, radiant - the list went on and on.  

“It’s like the fourth of July out there,” he muttered to Damien and Jodie, eating a hot dog carefully because he wasn’t sure just how “infallible” this lipstick actually was.  “Only instead of being made of fire and death, the rockets are all people who are proud of who they are.”

“Well, according to conservatives, we do about as much damage,” Damien husked back lightly, batting eyelids that had been decorated with electric green falsies and shimmery liquid shadow.  

Daisy laughed, then tossed his loose red curls over his shoulder as he felt the laugh in the tight binding around his torso, pushing his pecs up into something resembling breasts.  The sun was high overhead, and his sunglasses were heart-shaped and bright pink; his shoes had a four-inch heel, and Natasha had carefully shaved his legs and then applied a “seam” of eyeliner, the way the girls used to do it in the forties.  Daisy sat on the edge of a table next to Prince Damien, leaned his head gently onto the other man’s shoulder, and crossed one lined knee over the other, kicking slightly.

“Remind me to do favors for Jodie more often,” he said, playing up the Brooklyn in his voice, because Daisy was definitely a Hometown Girl.

It was a really, _really_ good day.

 

* * *

 

_I think this might be the worst part of moving._

Okay, it wasn’t the most charitable thought Tony had ever had.

Still.  

Bri was really great for a thirteen-year-old, but she was still _only thirteen._

 _And,_ Tony reflected, _her voice is fucking pitched appropriately!_

Tony winced, and tried to find words to make the keening stop.  “Okay, Cheese, come on.  It’ll be okay.  I’m not _dying,_ I’m just moving to a better job -”

_“You’re leaving me!”_

Tony winced again.  

“I’m leaving _Vancouver,_ I’m leaving _all_ my friends, but I’m going to be in a position to do _so much more_ of what I want in life -”

_“What if it’s the end of the world again?!”_

Hopefully, the end of the world would follow him to New York.

 _No, bad thought!_  

Out loud, he said, “Then you’ll call me, and Henry, and that nice phoenix lady we met in the park, and Sarah and Clara, and half a dozen other people we’ve met, and we’ll stop it together.  I can get a plane ticket if absolutely necessary, but I think - and your dad thinks - that, first of all, most things don’t really need a _wizard_ , so much as they need _someone who knows about magic,_ and there are plenty of those around who aren’t you.”  

_And hopefully the wizard-requiring shit won’t happen to the thirteen year old girl!_

“But also, if, _if,_ something comes up that needs a wizard, and for whatever reason you can’t wait for me…”  Tony sighed.  “I will deny to my grave that I said this, but honestly, Cheese, I think you can handle it.”

Bri sniffled, and stared at him.  “Really?” she asked, voice wobbly.

“Yeah,” Tony admitted, smiling sheepishly at her.  “Really.”

Bri blinked - once, twice - and then burst into tears again.  

Tony compassionately refrained from groaning out loud.

 

* * *

 

Prince Damien being a prince among men, he walked Steve home.  Honestly, it was completely adorable.

“You know, I can take care of myself,” Steve pointed out as uselessly as Damien followed him onto the train.  

“Honey, _please._ Of course you can!”  

That didn’t seem to make much difference.

They settled in together against the side of the train, and Daisy tipped his head back, curls dancing over his too-large shoulders.  “You know where I got the name?” he asked, closing his eyes and feeling the sticky-powdery makeup on the lids.  “She was a girl I used to work with.  Pretty, voracious - knew what she wanted, and got it, Daisy did.  I always admired that about her.”

Damien twisted a little to look at Steve’s face.  “Did you sleep with her?” he asked breathlessly.  

Steve snorted.  “Yeah,” he muttered.  “It was fine.”

Damien let off a peal of laughter, fake lashes batting madly, and someone down the train muttered, “Damned fags.”

Steve straightened his head up and looked down the car, trying to spot the asshole.  No one was looking at them, but he glared in the general direction, anyway.  

“Anyway,” he continued, slowly settling back into his lean when nobody stood up to confront them, “Daisy wasn’t _her_ real name, either.  She was pretending to be something _she_ wasn’t, too.  I thought it was appropriate.”

Damien kicked his feet out, slouching down.  “Why?  What was she pretending to be, darling?”

“White.”  Steve shrugged, not lifting his head up.  “She was mixed-race, from down in Georgia.  Her real name was _Marguerite,_ Marguerite Johnson; that’s where she got Daisy from, I guess.  She got tired of all the shit she had to deal with from that, I think, because by the time she hit New York she was Daisy Fibonacci, proudly Italian and not a little bit black, no sir.”  He shrugged again.  “Being Italian had its own problems, back then, but not as much as the other thing.”

“It’s never as much as the other thing,” Damien agreed glumly.

Steve shifted his shoulders and recrossed his knees the other way.  “I was thinking about it a lot today,” he mused.  “About the way that we solve some problems, only to find more.  About the way discrimination always gets worse before it gets better.”  He stares at the top of the train, slowly pulling his clip-on earrings off because they pinch horridly.  “Sometimes I wonder if it ever even makes a difference, what I do.  If I wouldn’t be better off fighting politically, instead.  But then I think about how little difference there is in the world-that-was and the world-that-is, and I don’t think _that’ll_ make a difference, either.”  He dredged up a smile before this got too depressing, and met Damien’s eyes.  “And then I meet a guy like you, and have a day like today, and I remember that we are, actually, getting better.  Even if it’s slow.”

Damien smiled over at him, a quietly pleased expression that Steve had to smile back at, and, impulsively, took Steve’s hand and squeezed.

Steve astonished himself by blushing, and, just as impulsively, pulled Damien into a hug.  

(Prince Damien gave _great_ hugs, for the record, which…  It wasn’t exactly a surprise.)

Steve squeezed tighter, tucking his head into Damien’s neck and sighing, the way he used to hug Bucky.  Damien was actually taller than Steve was, and about as broad, and the familiarity of it made Steve’s throat sting.  

They made it maybe fifteen seconds before the asshole in the back muttered about fags again.

Steve pulled back and met Damien’s eyes.  “Hey Prince Damien,” he asked with a moue, “What are your feelings on public make-outs for the purposes of annoying prejudiced jerks?”

“Oh, _honey.”_  Damien grinned his broad, joyful smile.  “Today is the _best day.”_

 

* * *

 

The last day of recording for _Elemental,_ the video game Lee was voice acting, was the first week in July - and honestly, Lee was glad of the extra time off.  He wrapped up the last of the lines (an Easter egg that unlocked if you tried to romance the villain, as it happened), grabbed his bags, and caught a cab to the airport:  he had almost a month of vacation, and he had every intention of spending some time with his mother.  He did send out a text to the New York contingent of his friends as a sort of "heads up" - they deserved to know that he wasn't going to be available for a bit - but since his social life had been bizarrely subdued since he broke up with Steve - especially bizarre, considering  _no one knew that -_ he doubted it would bother anyone overly much.

 

* * *

 

Steve changed in the stall of a public bathroom in Grand Central Station, erasing the now-smudged makeup with facial wipes, pulling the wig and stashing it in his bag, throwing the skullcap in the trash.  The tube top he left on, but he took the binding and padding off, and his chest distorted the line of the tube top, stretching out the top; he donned a t-shirt and bulky hoodie over top to cover up,  It left him overly warm, but it was late at night and he was close to the Tower.  He’d live.

For a moment, he was conscious of the oddness, the hoodie-and-mini combination making him look like a teenaged girl in her boyfriend’s letterman jacket.  He closed his eyes against the disorientation of it, bracing his arms against the side of the narrow stall.

Opening his eyes again, he rolled the skirt down, stepping out of it with his heels still on because he didn’t want to stand barefoot in a bathroom in Grand Central.  He hesitated, but in the end decided to keep his structural undergarments and tuck in place under the track pants he pulled on.

By the time Steve Rogers left the stall, everyone who might have noticed Daisy go in was gone.

 

* * *

* * *

 

I stick to the trains because they’re easiest - just hop on the outside, clip in, and I’m set.  Intel depots are the highest priority targets - I need all the intel I can get, and also, intel is the dividing line between “HYDRA Base” and “Building with a bunch of clueless paramilitary types sitting around plotting the end of the world” - if I want to stop these jerks, I don’t need to cut off heads, I need to lobotomize them.  

But the Avengers are going to be targeting the intel bases, too, because they’re not stupid.  I get to hit one, maybe two of those, and then I’m _done -_ everything else is going to have to be barracks, supply dumps, and research facilities.  I have a month; allow two days of rest for every day of action - to allow for healing in the unlikely event of injury - and I have 10 slots for targets.  That means two intel targets - including the server farm, which I grudgingly place at the top of the list, because I _must_ hit them first if I want to get there before the Avengers - and eight more.

The pseudo-cults are going to be tricky, and are better left to the Avengers with their higher manpower, but I resolve to hit one or two just to make sure the Avengers even _know_ about the cults; other than that, it’ll all be research facilities.

That’s okay; I’ve got a few bones to pick with HYDRA researchers, anyway.

  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Knutmegwrites, who provided the beta on this last chapter! (And also, indirectly, the kick in the pants I needed to post it!)

The logical thing to do is to start in Cleveland, then hit Chicago, followed by the HOUCC—the Hydra version of the Cloud—in North Dakota.  That’s the straightest route, for one thing:  I can probably cover all three in about two days if I time it right, and if I feel like buying a ticket, I can even ride the Amtrak in style the whole way instead of clinging to the roof like some kinda cross between a howler monkey and a barnacle.

The problem is, the HOUCCCKKH— _ Jesus  _ I hate that shitty acronym—is the highest priority, and if one of the first two bases proves to be more complicated than it appears, or sends up an alert, that’s my access gone.  So I’m hitting server storage in North Dakota first, then heading back to Chicago before stowing away on a shipping container headed down the Mississippi and taking out one of those not-actually-a-cult type bases in Missouri.  It means skipping the base in Cleveland, but that one’s an older one—most active in the late nineties, now a simple repository, from what I can tell—and since the Avengers seem to be spreading out geographically from the East, they’ll hit it pretty soon, anyway.

From there, I can head into Texas—I am  _ definitely  _ hitting Dallas, because it appears to be HYDRA’s  _ favorite city ever,  _ but I bet I can also make two of the three other bases in the state, too, before heading up to Oklahoma to get the pseudo-cult outside of Tulsa.  

I have approximately a zero percent chance of being able to successfully take on the base in Colorado Springs without detection, but I’ll evaluate on the way whether I can do anything to make the Avengers aware of it—maybe I can make it their problem.

Then there’s the three in the Mojave—research bases, all.  The most likely bases to have information on myself, stored somehow outside of the cloud.  I’ll definitely be hitting all three of those.  It would be nice to be able to swing up and hit the Sacramento base next, but most likely, the Avengers will be there by then.

I’ve allowed for ten targets, to give myself time to recover if wounded, but that’s me being humble:  I’m pretty sure I can do all of this with time to spare.

Only one way to find out.

 

* * *

 

The server farm is depressing as hell.

  1. It’s in North Dakota.  North Dakota is a gorgeous state, don’t get me wrong, but Jesus, the poverty wears on the people like rust on a lug nut.
  2. Apparently, server farms are a lot like actual farms in that they’re full of rows and rows of products (corn, beets, computers) that are virtually indistinguishable from each other.  They are boring even to look at.
  3. Server farms are _also_ a lot like actual farms in that they are extremely vulnerable to flamethrowers.



Good-bye,  _ HYDRA Online Uploaded Computer Compendium.  _  May you rest in peaccckh.

 

* * *

 

The base outside of Chicago—and what the fuck is wrong with the future that they’re calling it  _ Chicagoland?   _ It ain’t a theme park, for crying out loud!—is as close to Indiana as you can get and still technically be in Illinois.  It’s in what looks like an abandoned factory, complete with plywood boarding on all the windows and locks on the wrought-iron gates, and the neighborhood around it appears oblivious to its operation.  Once I get inside, though, it’s a different story:  the slouchy exterior gives way to steel beams and electronic locks, the most interesting of which is in a door set against a side wall, near the rear of the building.  In fact, it’s  _ so  _ near the rear of the building, it can’t exactly be going to a room. 

I’ve found the stairs.

I smash the hell out of the locks; it is  _ extremely  _ satisfying.

Alerts scream as I creep down the cinder-block-lined stairs, and all the power is out.  Red emergency lighting flashing overhead.  

I don’t  _ exactly _ have the element of surprise.  

The basement is two stories deep and would have been dimly lit even if it were shorter; you would think there’d be industrial lighting—and there is, some, track lighting that runs high overhead—but mostly there are lamps, the upright kind you buy a dozen at a time when outfitting a hotel, the kind that always get under-watt bulbs.  The stairs themselves are metal—echoey, hard to traverse quietly—and the railings are flimsy enough I could probably break them even without the enhanced strength.

Something moves near the base of the stairs, and I jump without evening thinking, making for the exposed pipe overhead and praying it holds my weight.

It does, barely—not well enough, or silently enough, to climb on top, though.  I hook a knee around it and haul my body up as far as I can without pointing the gun in my flesh hand away from the stairs.

A man charges up them, gun at the ready:  HYDRA mook, model 271:  Thinks he’s dangerous.  

Wrong.  But if I kill him, I reveal my position.  

I wait, instead.

Before he’s even as close as directly under me, some kind of dart hits him in the back and he goes down.  It’s blue, light blue; an unnatural hue.  From the way the mook goes down, it’s obviously some kind of tranq, but I’m not familiar with this particular model.  Most likely SHIELD tech, then.  

Or—Ex-SHIELD, I guess.

Yeesh.

“We’ve got company,” someone says from the bottom of the stairs. 

“Gee, you think?” 

“Shut up, Steve.”  Despite the words, the tone is affectionate.  My heart stops and starts again, squeezing all the breath temporarily out of my lungs.  

Steve is here.

The room below is subdivided with filing cabinets and modular walls—a bizarrely cheap feature, given the high-tech fixtures upstairs, and after a moment, I know exactly why I’m seeing it.  

This facility was executive forces HQ for the HYDRA equivalent of the STRIKE teams, which means that downstairs—the level I’m looking at—was where they did background checks, personnel evaluations, training, planning, accounting, and—incongruous as it sounds for an evil organization bent on taking over the world—payroll.  No one’s going to work for the evil Nazi cult without getting paid well and promptly, after all.

_ (Except me,  _ I realize with an unsettled squirm in my stomach.)

I make bets with myself.  First of all, that there’s a training room on the next level down, and second, that HYDRA has put some real money into that training room: all new equipment all the time, heart-rate monitors, better materials.  But with the upper part of the basement being reserved for the pencil-pushers, it’s a lot lower quality than the rest of the facility:  shoddy looking couches, the walls are those modular divider things...  Half the furniture is built on top of filing cabinets, basically.  It’s not bad enough that they’re using folding chairs, but it’s close.  

And  _ all  _ that stuff has to have driven the peanut pool  _ nuts. _

Because upstairs, like that training room, would have been all weapons manufacture and storage:  quality materials necessary, or all the guns and garottes and grenades, the rebreathers and body armor and bombs…  You gotta build with quality to be able to build more quality.  So upstairs was made with all the best, and it was  _ busy,  _ a constantly buzzing hive of productivity, and there is  _ no way  _ the downstairs guys were unaware of it..

_ And now it’s empty,  _ I remember.   

I feel a chill go down my neck.

_ And Steve is here,  _ I remember again.  With a feeling like fleeting irritation, I brush the thought aside. 

I was right to hit the HOUCC first; the rats all scattered at the tip-off.

Except…  there’s that guy lying suddenly and involuntarily asleep on the stairs beneath me.   _ He  _ didn’t scatter.  

Or did he?  

My hands feel clammy, and my breath is coming shallow.

Possibilities:  

  1. Tired Guy is a minion, too unimportant to be worth either killing or notifying of the change in status of the base.  Possible, but, given the importance of _this_ base to HYDRA’s plans, unlikely.
  2. Tired Guy is _not_ a minion, and was in the process of destroying all the evidence when the unknown number of Avengers interrupted him.
  3. Tired Guy is not a minion, and was _not_ in the process of destroying evidence.  Maybe he forgot his fucking cell phone here the other day, and came in despite being told to stay home in order to retrieve it.
  4. Something weirder.



The weapons upstairs are gone; the shell of the facility is still standing.  I can’t see too far into the next level because of those stupid fabric walls and filing cabinets, but they aren’t blackened, and the place doesn’t smell or bear signs of smoke.  That leads me to three real possibilities that matter, here.  

  1. The intel on this level is intact, including:  the locations of additional safe houses, stash houses, and caches; the identities of a wide number of high-level HYDRA agents; the account numbers for at least one, possibly more, of HYDRA’s monetary supplies; the locations of further training and equipment facilities; strategic and tactical technique guides; and any remaining intel on me.  Potentially a chair.
  2. The intel on this level is already completely destroyed.
  3. The intel on this level is _in the process_ of being completely destroyed.



Also:   _ Steve is here.  _

Steve is…  

I do not wish to talk to Steve.  

Yet.  

But then, I  _ am  _ wearing the mask…

_ Intact, destroyed,  _ or  _ in process:  _  Decision time.

...and I am tired of running.

_ Intact, destroyed,  _ or  _ in process…. _

I’m not the only one who was running.  

The facility has another entrance; given all the things I saw on the way in, I’m guessing the Widow and... 

...The Widow and  _ Steve...  _

...came through the back door.

Tired Guy was running away from them, towards me.  

Not the tactic I’d’ve recommended for a middle-aged white guy in a cheap shirt.

_ Intact, destroyed... _

_...in process. _

“VDOVA!” 

My voice doesn’t echo in the underground office so much as thud against the cheaply-made walls.  A flash of red reveals the Widow’s position behind a potted plant.

“BEZHAT’!  TAM BOMBA!”  

I unclench my metal fist and unhook my knee, letting myself drop to the stairs as I hear their voices from behind me.

“What does that mean?”  

Steve’s voice.

“It means there’s a bomb—move!”

Widow’s voice.  

Good girl.  

With a grunt, I throw Tired Guy over a shoulder before heading for the exit.  Hopefully, it’s enough to keep me from getting shot in the back.

 

* * *

 

I am  _ fuming. _

This was not even  _ close  _ to the plan!

 

* * *

 

With Tired Guy weighing me down, it doesn’t take long for the other two to pass me.  Widow heads into the street, Steve  _ holds the door for me,  _ the  _ moron, _ and I throw myself through with Tired Guy and make it into across the street just as muffled  _ booms!  _ come from beneath our feet, and the building implodes.

It’s a neatly-controlled demotion, to tell the truth—Tired guy is better than anticipated at explosives!—barely even causing a dust cloud to rise into the street.  It’s probable that, had we not been here, none of us would have ever even heard about this.

Nicely done, Tired Guy. 

You  _ schmuck. _

I sigh into my mask, and pull the elastic out of my hair.  I have  _ completely  _ buggered the plan, I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m pretty much flying on balls and creativity, here; I might as well have good hair for it.  

“One of you two yahoos gonna interrogate this joker?” I ask, nodding at Tired Guy.

They both turn to stare at me, eyes wide, neither speaking.

“...I mean, I can do it if you’d rather not,” I offer, gathering up strands to re-do the tail.  “I just got the impression that you’d rather have first dibs on any intel he might have.  Didn’t feel like fightin’ you for it.”

They continue to stare without speaking.  I have never been so thankful for my mask.

“Right,” I say, giving the elastic a final pat.  “I’m gonna leave him with you.  Good luck.”  I give my shoulders a little shake to re-settle the gun there and turn away, preparing to walk up the street.  I’m betting they’re not gonna let me get too far, though... 

They don’t.

“Wait!”  Three quick smacks like a fist pounding into an open palm, and then Steve jogs up beside me.  The Widow must be taking care of the prisoner, then.  “Don’t go!”

“Building just exploded in the middle of Chicago, pal; I ain’t stickin’ around.”

Technically, it imploded.  And we’re not so much in the middle of Chicago as hanging by our fingertips to its belt loops.  

Still.

...Did I just call him  _ pal?  _

“You’re with the Avengers,” Steve tells me, one hand stretching forward as if to grab my shoulder in a manly and brotherly manner.  That little helmet makes his compassionate expression look  _ extra stupid.   _ “You’re not going to get into trouble.”

“Rather not take that chance.”  My words come out a little muffled, what with the mask and all, but my tone is clear enough:  sardonic, uncompromising, and a little bit pointed.

Steve takes the bait, wincing and looking away.  “Look—what do I call you, anyway?”

I don’t answer.

I can’t tell him  _ Barnes,  _ for chrissake.

_ Bucky  _ is pretty much completely fucking out, too.

Steve doesn’t like the silence, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.  He shakes his head, and looks me straight in the eye again.  “HYDRA called you the Asset,” he tells me.  “I believe there’s more to you than that.”

_ Jesus! _

What do you  _ do  _ with a guy who just  _ says  _ shit like that?!  

“HYDRA worked really hard to burn anything more than that away,” I say finally.  “I ain’t the guy I used to be.”

We are in the  _ middle  _ of the  _ goddamned street!   _

“Who do you want to be?”

We are in the  _ middle of the goddamned street,  _ in broad  _ fucking  _ daylight!

“I...”  

I don’t know the answer to the question.  

I close my eyes, letting the warmth of the muggy Chicago summer beat its way into my bones.  I get a flash of memory—no doubt, inspired by the proximity to the lake:  hot sun, fresh breeze, water smells...  Happy shouts in my ears, the sight of a lady’s skirt flaring up around her hips...  “I used to want to be a carnival barker at Coney Island,” I blurt out, and then immediately think,  _ Holy shit! _

I am torn between two gut reactions:   _ Why the fuck did I say that?   _ And then, more innocently:  _ Wow, that would be a really great job! _

Steve laughs, looking down at the cracked pavement.  His eyes crinkle, but it’s not just in amusement—there’s some grief in there, too.  “I had a friend who used to want to do that,” he tells me when he looks up.

No shit, buddy.  

You don’t say.

“He went to war, instead.  Died when—well.”  Steve looks off into the distance—towards the lake, and his sense of direction’s probably good enough to know that.  “He died when I let him down.”  

My memory ain’t good enough to tell him he’s wrong on that one.  

That being said, though...  I am completely sure he’s wrong.

He keeps looking off into the distance, but now, his gaze is dancing around me like a shy or very confused firefly.  “You and he might have some things in common, I think—”

I snort.

_ Buddy, you don’t know the half of it! _

“—Bucky was a damned good shot, too—don’t protest, I saw your skills back in D.C.  Only place close enough to take the shot, you have to have triangulated off that picture frame on the side table.  Good eyes, good math, good aim...  You’re skilled.”

He returns to focusing entirely on me, and I gulp.  It feels weirdly naked to be in front of a scrutiny like that.

“But you’ve been using that skill for the wrong people,” Steve continues, “And I think you know that.  We found your records after D.C., and we know they were telling you it was the right thing... but you weren’t here today to make contact with handlers.  You were here today for the same reason we were—are.”  He pauses.  “Were you the one that took out the HYDRA computer cloud?”

I grunt.

“You wouldn’t believe the stupid-ass name they gave the thing,” I say reluctantly. 

He snorts.  “Yes, I would.  Look, you have the skills to do almost anything you want—although I’m not sure Coney Island will hire you with the mask on.”

Ha, ha, buddy.   _ Pal.   _

“But it seems to me that what you want is to make a difference in the world—to make it better.  And I think you can do that best by working  _ with  _ us.”

The Widow has come up behind him, is listening.  I meet her eyes, challenging.  (Scared.)  “What d’you think, Vdova?  Am I Avengers material?”

I expect the no; I’m ready for the no.

I don’t get it.

The Widow tilts her head to the side, saying, “You tell me,” instead, and I panic.  I look from one to the other, eyes tracking back and forth as quick as they can.  

The part I can’t wrap my head around is, they actually sound genuine.

They mean it; they really, for some damn reason,  _ mean it. _  They want me to come work for the Avengers.  It isn’t lost on me that they didn’t say I should  _ join  _ the Avengers—maybe they want me on the support end, or something—but, even though I shot their friend Fury, even though I worked for HYDRA for years, even though I’m a murderer with  _ literally dozens of assassinations  _ to my name...  They want me with them.

I can’t fucking deal with this.

I say, “Don’t follow me,” my voice harsh and gravelly, feeling more shaken even than I thought I could.

Then I start running.

For whatever reason, they follow my instructions:  they don’t follow me, and I make it to my gear, and then to my next ride, without incident.

 

* * *

 

By the time the boat is into the Mississippi, I’m starting to calm down.  The panic that had clenched in my chest loosens, leaving me tired and shaky.

After a few minutes of thinking, I unwrap one of the protein bars from my pack.

It helps, a little.

The procedural stuff is easiest to think about first:  do I keep my targets in their current order?  Do I mix them up, add some, leave some for the Avengers?

A couple miles later, and I’ve decided to keep the next few targets in the same order.  If I keep running into the Good Guys, I can always change my mind later...  But the cult in Missouri is a subtle one, and I don’t think the Avengers know about it, and the concentration in Texas is too tempting a target to miss, even if the Sincerity Squad is going to be there.

Maybe  _ especially  _ if the Sincerity Squad’s going to be there.  

HYDRA’s tricky; they’ve probably set an Avengers-trap.

The boat is slow, and it didn’t take me long to decide that I needed to dump it for a faster form of transport.  I’ll have plenty of time for a nap—the soonest I’m likely to hit Missouri if I don’t leave the boat is two days from now; if I’d been injured in Chicago, it would have been a good opportunity to rest up, but as it is, I’m bored as hell—and then I’ll jump ship—literally—and make for the highway.

Hitchhiking is sufficiently random that they still won’t see me coming.

 

* * *

 

I make it to Missouri in just under 24 hours.  It would be reckless and stupid to rush in without a plan or surveillance, and while I’m technologically limited, I’ve got enough gear from the other bases I’ve raided that I can drop some bugs.  I bunker down until I know the guard rotation.  

After that, it’s not exactly difficult to take out the base.  Their disguise as a cult means there are a surprising number of civilians in the facility—which seems more like an extensive network of below-ground bomb shelters than anything else—but that’s okay; for  _ some reason,  _ there’s an awful lot of knockout gas stored in their armory.

Isn’t that lucky?

I use the metal hand—the one with no fingerprints—to call the cops from a landline in the domestic quarters once I’ve raided as much intel as I can.  Then I drop the phone, letting the line hang while the EMS operator’s tinny voice calls, “Hello?   _ Hello?”   _

I’m long gone by the time the flashing lights arrive.

 

* * *

 

I get all the way through  _ both  _ bases in Dallas before running almost head-on into an Avenger in Austin.  And to make it worse, it’s the one I didn’t even know  _ was _ an Avenger.

Whoops.

The base in Austin is so nondescript that it can barely even be considered a base.  If I traced the records of the building back, I’d find out that HYDRA does own the ugly highrise in the middle of town, but for the most part, it’s unassuming, and they actually rent out the bottom twenty floors to normal businesses who probably got no clue their landlords are Nazis.  It’s only the top three floors that HYDRA reserves for its purposes, and even those are designated for specifically non-military purposes.  

What  _ is  _ there is a lot of hackers, scientists, bureaucrats...  It’s a place where local officials—where “local” means “from any of the nearest three states”—can show up for a “business meeting” in the penthouse without anything looking hinky.  They got plenty of money-shifters there, too, on that floor and the next one down, along with a little library-type place which serves as a research hub where HYDRA’s pet mad scientists conference with mad scientists from other disciplines.  It would almost be kinda nice, if they weren’t all evil jerks.  The last floor, the bottom one (or the twenty-first, if you’re counting the rest of the building), is where all the computer geeks are.

But the upside is, there’s no real muscle in there—a couple of bodyguards, and that’s it.  So it should be an easy hit:  come in, scare some folks, tie them all up for the cops to find, and get out again.

Theoretically.

Unfortunately, one of the nerds on the bottom floor has more than two braincells to rub together.  He hits an alarm, and one of the geeks on the second floor has an experimental explosive and a hell of a lot of devotion to the cause.  I’ve just started zip-tying mooks when a shockwave, curiously absent of any fire or explosion but still breaking enough windows that it’s definitely gonna get noticed, knocks me out and into the air.   

I hang, almost weightless, for half a second, just enough time to tilt my head back and see the ground far,  _ far  _ below me, and then I feel the nauseating shifting in my stomach as I start to fall.  

My heart clenches painfully, a fear of falling that’s stronger than any rational caution, and sweat breaks out onto my face.

I’m not thinking, panicking, too scared to do more than brace for the excruciating pain I know is coming—

Given the speed I’m moving at, it’s not too surprising I don’t see the guy coming.  (That, and also...  Who the hell  _ would  _ be expecting that?!)  He slams into me like a load-bearing semi, and, as all the breath whooshes from my lungs, bears me up to land on top of the Dicks’R’Us skyscraper.

“You looked like you could use a lift,” he calls as he throws me off of him with enough force that I roll across the gravel-covered roof.

“Oh look,” I groan, digging my metal hand into the roof to pull myself to a stop, “He’s funny.”

New Guy has a gap-toothed smile and one hell of a sexy wingpack.  “I try,” he says, pulling up his goggles.  “Sam Wilson,” he introduces himself.  “I work with Captain America.”

And the way he says it, I know I’m in trouble.

This guy  _ believes  _ in Captain America.  In Steve.  And, incredible as is seems,  _ apparently  _ that means he’s willing to trust me.

So of course I glare.

“What did he tell you about me.”  

I don’t straighten out of my crouch.

Sam Wilson cocks his head to the side.  “Not too much,” he says easily. “He said you’d been led down a wrong path, and he thought you were probably looking for a better one now.  He said you’d been working on making amends, it looked like, and he wanted to offer you a better way to do that.”

“A better way,” I repeat.  I heard him clearly enough, but I’m stalling for time, digging for more information.  

What does Steve  _ want  _ with me? 

He can’t want me back if he doesn’t know who I  _ am.   _ Or  _ was— _ I ain’t that guy anymore.  But he’s shown no sign, either in person or through intermediaries, of being aware of my identity.

Former identity.

Damn it.

Sam Wilson crosses his arms, takes a step closer.  I scoot back a step to match him, and then straighten myself up to try to make it look deliberate.  “Steve thinks you know things,” Sam Wilson calls.  “He thinks you’ve got a lot of intel on our common enemy, and he’s willing to share.  He’s also willing to coordinate with you, and fold you in under the Avengers mantle so that you’re covered from any legal repercussions.”

“What else?” I ask, stepping back again.

Sam Wilson looks confused. 

“What else do you expect from me in exchange?” I clarify.   _ No one _ is that nice.

Even Steve Rogers is a tricky son of a bitch, and I’m not dumb enough to forget it.  

(Not again, anyway.)

I take another step back.  

“He wants to  _ help,”  _ Wilson calls across to me.  He sounds ticked, now.  “He thinks you’re a decent guy, and he has a habit of trusting his gut!”

“Yeah?” I ask.  I drop a grappling hook on the ground, knowing that the ledge at the edge of the roof is right behind me.  “Well I don’t.”

I swing up and over, letting the grapple catch against the roof and bracing my legs to break through the penthouse window.  By the time Sam Wilson gets inside, I’m down the elevator shaft and gone.

 

* * *

 

The third time I run into an Avenger, I’m in the middle of the Mojave, sweating my balls off and ready to stab everybody.  

They hit Tulsa before I even get there.  Apparently, Stark had taken it down on his own, not with explosives or tank-missiles, but with bureaucracy:  the building—actually more of a bunker—didn’t meet fire code, causing the local fire department to call the local police department, who took one look at all the arms, ammo, and neonazi zealots, and promptly called the feds to come check it out.  Because it was a pseudo-cult facility, they didn’t have any fingers in the relevant pie that would have given them a heads-up, and the DHS moved in overnight and arrested literally everyone, right down to the dishwashers and maintenance techs.

So I get to town, and get right back out again, moving on to my next target.  

That next target—and the two after that—are research bunkers in the middle of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by desert.  The first two are in little towns, and between supply runs and the members of the staff who live in the nearby houses, I get enough cover to sneak in, at least as far the first two.

The third one is different, in part because it’s one of the places where they once held me.  Isolated via quite deliberate design, no one goes in or comes out for a year at a time when they get assigned there.  The reason this place wasn’t taken down during the SHIELD-HYDRA fracas is that no one who isn’t HYDRA has set foot in this place in fifteen years.

Except me.

No, I was HYDRA back then, too.

Like the previous two bases, this one is in the Mojave; unlike them, it’s nowhere close to any podunk little ex-mining-town, just a lot of rocks and sand.  The stone is just fucking beautiful, all red-orange and purple, low-lying scrub providing scant cover at best, but it’s all that can survive in that climate, so I’ll have to take it.  By this point, I’m pretty much done scavenging intel from the bases I hit, so my plan for taking out the bunker is simple:

  1. Hotwire a tanker truck at a gas station not too far from the base.
  2. Drive the truck towards the base.
  3. Lock controls into position (duct tape?)
  4. Roll out before impact, and run like hell.



And then, once the base is satisfyingly burned out...

  1.  Sort through the rubble and make sure there’s nothing left.



Good plan; solid plan.  

Pretty satisfying to the part of my brain that remembers being  _ stored  _ here like a  _ fucking doll,  _ too.

Plan would’ve worked a lot better, though, if the fucking  _ Hulk  _ hadn’t caught the tanker truck before it impacted the base in an explosive, highly-satisfying crash.  

The Hulk gets right in the truck’s way, catching it by the front like an offensive lineman, then  _ picks up the whole goddamned truck,  _ swings it like a top-flight dancer, and set the thing back down again, gently, right side up.

I should probably have been running at this point, but to be honest I’m too busy staring and breathing, “Holy shit!” to do it.

The thing about Hulk is, you don’t really get a sense of the size of him from videos.  I sure as fuck hadn’t:  up until that moment, I’d’ve said he was big, but not impossible.

I’d’ve been wrong.  He is  _ completely  _ impossible.

And he’s even bigger towering over a fellow and scowling.

Well, my fault for not running.  

“Hey there,” I say, swallowing.  

Lee Nicholas’ memories take that opportunity to throw the image of Bruce Banner at me, mild-mannered, quiet, restrained.  Hulk is definitely not restrained, I think.  

Except a second later, my  _ own  _ fucking memories give me the image of a tanker truck, settling down onto the cracked desert floor like a princess in a nest of pillows.  So maybe he is?

I swallow again, my mouth drier than the sands around us.  “Hey, there,” I repeat.  “Hey, big guy...  You know I wasn’t throwing that at  _ you,  _ right?”

_ Please,  _ please, _ tell me the guy knows that... _

Hulk tilts his head to the side, and then—faster than I would have  _ dreamed  _ anything that big could move—a hand snakes out and snatches me up by the front of my tac vest.  He pulls me close, almost like he’s near-sighted—he  _ can’t  _ be, can he?  Wouldn’t the serum have fixed that?  Then again, this particular serum apparently doesn’t care that he’s green, so—and then he asks, eyes narrowed, “Why puny metal-arm have no face?”

For a moment, swear to God, I think he’s about to eat off my face.

Then I remember:  The  _ mask.   _ The black, face-concealing tactical mask with inbuilt rebreather that I use because it hides my identity, and also because somewhere along the way I was programmed to focus more clearly on the mission when I was wearing it, and I’m not going to give up that advantage.

Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

“Air,” I say, bullshitting quickly.  Or—it’s not  _ that  _ much bullshit, I guess, I mean it is actually true.  It’s just that in this case,  _ true  _ isn’t the same as  _ real.  _  So—“Sometimes the air is bad,” I lie.  “This keeps me breathing only good stuff.”

Hulk doesn’t say anything for a second.

Hulk doesn’t even  _ twitch,  _ for a second; funny, you would think a guy that big would have some fucking tells.

Finally, he brings his other hand up—I have a split second to wonder if I should worm my way out of my tac vest and evade, only to realize that he’s fast enough to catch me before I’ve hit the ground—and...

...gently pats me on the head?  

“Puny metal-arm keep breathing,” he advises, and then sets me on his shoulder.  

Well, it  _ is  _ a tactically valuable position...

I slip my flesh arm into his hair to hold on, and bring a gun up in the left to snipe with.

 

* * *

 

Hulk takes me back to the little aircraft he apparently arrived in, but I don’t get an opportunity to have any fancy ideas before he has me pressed to his chest like an especially suffocate-able doll.  

With that thought, I can’t help spotting the difference between Hulk and the HYDRA goons who had staffed the facility behind us.  Both treated me like a doll, but to HYDRA it was a medical doll, good for experimenting on.  To Hulk, though, I’m more like a child’s doll, which is pretty much a person as far as the kid’s concerned, and which should get love and cuddles and tea parties in hand-made dresses.  I wrestle with the thought for longer than I want to admit, not sure how to quantify the sense of unease it stirs in me.

Once he’s unconscious, Hulk reverts to Banner, whom I remember Lee Nicholas liking a lot.  He looks strangely vulnerable, and also he’s not wearing pants, so I dig out a crinkly silver mylar blanket and cover him up, then brew up a couple cups of tea using the thermal port near the nav controls.  (Lee Nicholas remembered that Banner liked Darjeeling.) 

By the time he wakes up, I’m sitting in the pilot’s seat, watching him over a steaming mug, and all my guns are on the floor between us.  I already know I can’t kill the guy; no use pretending, and it would just make him... angry.  I’ll have better luck making it clear I won’t try anything, although it makes me nervous to give him that many openings to kill  _ me.   _ I remind myself firmly that it doesn’t matter.  Banner doesn’t  _ need  _ openings; he  _ is  _ an opening.

But Hulk liked me, I remember.  The thought doesn’t leave me any happier than it did twenty minutes ago.

Banner looks around cautiously when he wakes up, immediately realizing that “covered with a blanket and with a fresh pair of pants in arm’s reach” is not how he went to sleep.  He spots me quickly, and goes instantly tense.

“Who are you?” he asks, squinting at me.

Incredible.

He really is myopic.  Even after the serum.

Must’ve gotten a pretty shitty serum, to be honest.

And I still don’t have a good answer to the question he’s just asked.

“HYDRA called me the Asset,” I say, trying to take a sip of tea without taking off the mask.  It’s awkward, but I lift the edge of the mask enough to slip the little sippy-straw that I’d gotten out of a cardboard box labeled “stir-sticks” into my mouth.  The tea is hotter through the straw, it seems like, and I wince, but, having demonstrated the lack of poison, I can hand the cup over to Banner and pour out another one.

Banner takes it and sips without changing expression, studying me calmly.  “That wasn’t an answer, exactly.”

I can feel a muscle twitch under my eye.  “I don’t  _ know,”  _ I snap.  “I ain’t who I used to be.”  The tea sounds like a little brook as it pours, tiny watery sounds like a meditation tape.  

“Hmmm.”  Banner takes another sip, then sets the cup down.  “Turn around, please.  I’m going to put on those pants.”

Every muscle in my back crawling, I do it.  My pulse is pounding in my throat and ears, panic sending the word  _ betrayal!  _ screeching through my limbs until my toes and fingers go numb.   _ He’s going to pick up a gun!  _ my brain screams.   _ He’s going to kill you!  Two shots, right to the back of the head, you can’t stop it, you can’t defend, you’re  _ helpless—!

“Thank you.”

I whirl fast enough that he jerks away from me, and then  _ I  _ back away from  _ him  _ until my back hits the control panel.

We stare at each other like a pair of cautious, startled, ferrets for moment, and then Banner starts laughing.  

He’s got a really nice laugh, all quiet and shy.  It’s the sort of laugh that makes me glad I made tea for him, if that makes any sense.

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”  

I shrug, and keep watching.

“Please, have a seat,” he tries again, wrapping back up in the mylar now that he’s gotten some clean underwear on.  “I promise not to attack you if you don’t attack me.”

I don’t say anything.  But I do, cautiously, drop myself back into the pilot’s chair again.  

“Thank you.”  He sips his tea, and I look sadly at the cup I dropped.  He says, “I don’t think you’re trying to kidnap me.”

I snort.  “Yeah, that’d be real fuckin’ successful.”

“Hm.”  He flicks an eyebrow in acknowledgement.  “It’s something that has been tried.  Repeatedly.  By some very scary people, and yet, I feel certain you would be a match for them.”

I snort again.  “Oh, in that case, then.  I’ll just stick you in my pocket.”

“I didn’t say it was a good idea.  Just that I’ve gotten used to the attempts.”

I study potential routes of egress.  “I ain’t them.”

“Apparently not.  Which brings us back to the question of, ‘Who are you?’”

Once again, I don’t answer.  

Banner sighs, less patiently this time.  “If you don’t know, then I have a suggestion.”

I watch him warily.

“The Avengers are very concerned about the number of HYDRA sites still remaining; you appear to have valuable intel, and also a...  hmm... an advanced skill set.  What you need is time to figure yourself out.  Tell me, from the time you left HYDRA’S control until now, have you had time to figure yourself out at all?

“So I propose a trade, of sorts.”  His voice is still even, still level, still calm.  “You turn your information over to us, and we use it to go after HYDRA.  You stay out of our sights, and out of our way, while we do so.  If you, at an point, wish to return to hunting HYDRA, you coordinate with us before doing so.”

I remember abruptly that, Lee Nicholas’s memories aside, I have absolutely no reason to trust this guy.  “Why.”  

Banner sips his tea, looking not particularly alarmed at my (fully justified) caution.  “If it had been any other member of the team here today, would they have survived the encounter?”  

I remember the tanker truck speeding towards the facility.  I think about the durability of gods and suits of armor... and hesitate.  “Maybe?”

Banner’s smile is wry.  “Do you believe I think that’s good enough?”

Sulky, I stick the sippy-straw under my mask and slurp my tea again in lieu of answering.

Banner shrugs.  “You can just leave, instead, of course.  You stayed to guard me, and you didn’t have to; you saved Steve and Natasha’s lives in Chicago.  We do owe you a debt.”

I shift in the pilot’s chair.  “The Falcon,” I say.  Start to say.

“Hm, that’s right.”  Banner sips his tea, folding his legs into lotus position while he thinks.  “No, it’s still not even; I think the kindness towards me tips the scales again.  But, you know... there  _ are  _ a couple other reasons you should think about the offer.”  

I eye him warily, but say nothing.  He takes it, correctly, as an invitation to continue.

“You could continue to hunt HYDRA on your own.  And you would continue to run into us.  But if you run into us and we’re not expecting you, you’ll be at a greatly increased risk of becoming collateral damage.”

“Not a prisoner?”

I didn’t mean to ask that.  It slipped out before I even realized I’d thought it.

Doesn’t mean I won’t wait for the answer, though.

“Not a prisoner.”  Banner’s fingers tighten on the styrofoam, but that’s the only sign of upset he shows.  He remains the same color he always was.  “I’m opposed to taking prisoners,” he adds.  His tone is even, but deep; as if there’s some deeply-buried rage hiding behind them.

He waits again, but for nothing; it took me all of half a second to decide it wouldn’t be exactly prudent to poke at that one.

“The other reason is you,” he finally says instead.  “We’ve all asked you, and I’ll do it again:  Who are you?”

I look away, reaching over to poke the thermal pot.  “I don’t  _ know,”  _ I growl.

I’m getting real sick of that being my answer.

“Not who I used to be,” I add.

That ain’t much better.

“Yes, you said that earlier.  And who did you used to be?” Banner’s voice is mild, slightly husky, tentative...  The question still feels like being flayed.  

It must show in my eyes; Banner jerks back like I threatened violence, and I find myself vaguely embarrassed.

“Look, the last person I used to be was a stooge for HYDRA,” I start, trying to shake the feeling.  “Before that...  Before that, I was a lot of things, but most of what I know about that guy is hearsay, you know?  I don’t remember him.  Just... flashes, once in awhile.  But the one thing I  _ do  _ know is this:  He  _ hated  _ HYDRA.  Fought ‘em, with every inch of his being.  Until it killed him.”

It feels truthful, for all it’s less than perfectly accurate.  Barnes  _ had  _ been in the fight until it killed him, hadn’t he?

Hadn’t  _ I, _ I mean.

Shit.

I bite my lip behind the mask.  “I’ve been dead a long time, and the world has changed around me.  I ain’t real sure how to go about bein’ alive again.  But there’s one thing,  _ one thing, _ I know for sure I can do.  And you’re asking me to give that up.”

He doesn’t get angry; it’s actually the opposite, he nods like I’ve just confirmed a fuckin’  _ theory  _ of his.  “I’m  _ advising you  _ to give it up, actually.  Vendettas lead to half-lives, at best.  I promise you, I’ve seen it.”

He might have a point.

Doesn’t mean I’m safe; just that he’s got a point.

Maybe.

I open my mouth to argue again, but what falls out is, “I don’t think I can do it.”  

Which makes no fucking sense at all, so I add, “Live like a normal person, I mean,” for clarity.  

Because clarifying to a fuckin’ stranger is a  _ fantastic  _ fuckin’ idea, Jesus Christ, Barnes!

Banner makes a thoughtful noise.  “I know something about journeys of self-discovery.  For one thing, I know they take time—which I doubt you’ve had.  Have you spent even a week staying in one place?  Or have you filled all your days with challenges, with activities?  With things that mean you can avoid thinking?”  His voice is mild, belying the confrontation in his words.  

Doesn’t stop them from hitting hard, though.  I’m wearing the mask, but I know damn good and well the truth shows in my eyes.  

Even when I was staying with Foster, I followed him to work, and in the silence of the jet with a man who used to be a monster, it’s hard to pretend it was only to keep up security.

I bought the man a goddamn  _ cat,  _ for chrissake.

“I thought not.  Go find yourself, person-who-used-to-be-the-Winter-Soldier.  Stop hunting HYDRA, and start drinking tea.  Keep a journal.  Spend a day sitting in the sunlight.  Learn to garden.  

“The man you were before, the one who hunted HYDRA, too—who was he?  Did he have a family?  A wife, children?  A mother?”

“A brother,” I answer, again without thinking about it.

Then I start shaking.

James Buchanan Barnes had three siblings:  Rebecca, Beulah, and Mildred.

“My family’s all gone now, except my brother, and I can’t—”  The words choke in my throat.

“Then discover what needs to happen until you can,” Banner suggests firmly.  “Because they deserve to be remembered.  Because, frankly, from what I can see, you deserve it, too.  And if nothing else, then do it because we, all of us, are desperately curious to meet you.”

I’m shaking so hard I drop my styrofoam cup.

 

* * *

 

I give him my intel.

I re-steal the tanker truck, and drive north.  

I pretend that the reason I’m stopping is because I made my ten hits for the month, and because the risk of running into even more fucking Avengers is too high.

I’m not actually all that great at pretending, though.

I’m in Vancouver again inside of two days.

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

When Lee went home, he actually went  _ home; h _ is parents still lived in Dunbar, and had not one, but  _ three  _ spare bedrooms, due mostly to Lee and his siblings having all emptied the nest.  

For the first few days, it was great.  His mom made pie and fed him at every opportunity, his dad grunted at him and nodded from his recliner, and Lee was able to go for runs on the wide sidewalks without having to dodge every ten seconds or sweating himself to death. He called old friends—Jones was out of town, but JD and Peter met him for lunch and drinks, respectively—and read a lot, and generally had a relaxing vacation.

The problem was, his vacation was over three weeks long, and by day six, Lee was bored out of his mind.

By the end of the eighth day, he broke and call Tony.  

“This is Foster,” Tony answered, sounding distracted.  Something crashed in the background.

“You didn’t look at the caller ID before you answered, did you?”  

“Holy shit!  Uh.  Fuck.  No, I didn’t.  What—How are you?”  And then, voice sharpening—“Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine.”  Lee lay back in his too-small childhood bed; twin-sized mattresses were not meant to accommodate men over six feet tall.  “I’m home, actually.  We don’t start shooting until August, and I’m all done with my voice acting job, so...”

“Shit, really?  I, uh—I’ve.  Got some time?”

Lee smiled, an action that was almost reflexive at this point when Tony sounded especially dorky.  (Which, okay, was  _ usually,  _ but then, that might be one reason why they mostly texted...)

“Is this ‘come help stop the end of the world’ time, or ‘let’s have drinks and catch up’ time?”

“It’s ‘let’s have drinks and’— _ Fuck!”  _

“Get the damned sword!” someone snarled in the background.

Then there was a series of loud bangs, a thump, a high-pitched whine like some sort of grenade out of a  _ Star Wars  _ movie, and another thud.  “God  _ damn _ it, I  _ do not have time for this shit!  CHEESE?!” _

The next sound was a young female voice saying improbable syllables at an impossibly fast speed, and then what was, very definitely, the sound of an explosion.

Lee crossed one foot over the opposite knee, then bent the knee towards his chest for a stretch, his head pushing back into the pillow.  Nutmeg, his mom’s old golden retriever, ambled into the room and stuck her head under his free hand, and he scratched her ears while he waited for Tony to get back on the line.

Which he did, panting and sounding irritated as he said, “Sorry about that.”

“No problem,” Lee said calmly.  

If it had really been important, Tony would have told him.

Probably.

_ No, he would! _

_...Probably. _

“So...  Drinks?”

 

* * *

 

Tony sad they would have to go out late...

...because he had refused to allow Bri to come with him.

Lee pushed down the spurt of panic at that idea and hurriedly agreed that he was fine with waiting for Tony.

 

* * *

 

They talked about the show...

_ “Jesus, Lee, the costume design budget for that thing is better than CB’s whole payroll!” Tony enthused.  “It’s like Christmas!” _

_ “Amazing what happens when you don’t have to shoot every episode like a bottle episode,” Lee grinned back.  “And yet, they cannot get me multiple sets of boots.” _

_ “Actually, they have a backup pair—which you totally don’t know about, shit, don’t tell them I told you—and also apparently you’re being a ‘literal prince’—” Tony’s impression was disturbingly accurate.  “—about some contacts?” _

_ “It’s not that bad, they just itch a little bit,” Lee brushed it off.  “The jacket is worse, honestly, it’s all wool.” _

_ Tony frowned.  “Aren’t you allergic to wool?” _

_ “Only mildly!  If I can take it off in between takes it’s alright.  And anyway, I only really suffer with the kind of wool that actually comes from sheep; cashmere, alpaca, and stuff like that are all fine.” _

_ “But is the jacket made out of the kind of wool that comes from sheep?” _

_ “Well, yeah.” _

_ Tony snorted. _

They talked about the cross-country relocation...

_ “So your friend Clint said it was fine to bring my ‘protection runes’ with me to the new apartment.  Did you, uh... tell him I’m a wizard?” _

_ “No, I told him you were friends with the same wizard I’m friends with, the one whose identity he doesn’t get to know.” _

_ “Oh.  Well... thanks.  And, uh, did you want me to ward your place again when I get in?” _

_ “Honestly, Tony, it’s probably best to have you ward the studio, the Tower, and Isaac’s place, too.” _

_ “The  _ Tower?   _ Seriously?  Just gonna name drop that one, huh?” _

_ Lee shrugged.  “It’s not only the Avengers who live there,” he said quietly.  “Darcy does, too.” _

_ Tony stared at him, and then his shoulders slumped as he gave in.  “Yeah, sure, fine.  I’ll ward the freaking  _ Avengers Tower,  _ Jesus.  Hope you stocked up on cough syrup.” _

And then, finally, they talked about the inevitable.

“So how’s it going with, uh...”  Lee sought for a suitable euphemism for a name he wasn’t supposed to be saying.  “...the guy who looks like me but is not in fact me?”

Tony held up a hand, palm down, waggling it back and forth.  

“That good, huh?”

Tony explained what had happened subsequent to Bucky’s viewing of the  _ Howling Commandos  _ opening.  “So now, we’re all trying to dig up more information, theoretically.”

“Explain again why he’s not just going to Steve?”

Tony winced.

“Tony.”

“I really, seriously, promised not to tell,” Tony pleaded.  “And anyway, it doesn’t matter.  The goal is to negate that argument—the argument I can’t share with you, which means I’m the one who’s going to have to do that—so that he  _ will  _ go to ‘Steve’.”

“Don’t do that,” Lee snapped automatically.

“Don’t do  _ what?”   _ Tony’s exasperated expression indicated that he legitimately did not understand to what Lee was referring.

Lee leaned across the table and dropped his voice to hiss, “Don’t say ‘Steve’ in quotes.”

Tony leaned back—probably not defensively—okay, probably only a little defensively—and threw his hands in the air.  “What do you want me to call him?  Captain America?  I don’t even know the guy!”

“Yet.”

Tony’s eyes widened.  “No.”

He didn’t pretend not to know what Tony meant.  “Why not?”

“Lee,  _ no!”   _

“Seriously, why not?!  I think you two would get along.” 

He didn’t say,  _ I think you would feed off of each other’s sass and terrible humor and nerdiness and fantastic asses until it ended in a lifelong friendship or a threesome, and honestly I would be up for either one. _

He thought it, but he didn’t say it.

He was being very restrained.

“I can’t meet Captain America!”

_ “Why not?   _ Seriously, Tony, you’re going to be the only wizard of my acquaintance in New York City, sooner or later you’re going to have to meet him on wizard-business, if nothing else.”

“Because!”  Tony’s eyes darted frantically around the restaurant, and Lee slowly started to get a suspicion of what was going on.

“Because...?”

Tony jerked his head the side and widened his eyes, and Lee started grinning.

“You’ve jerked off to him!”

_ “Keep your voice down,”  _ Tony hissed.

“Oh my god!  This is hilarious!  Are you kidding me right now?”

“Captain America was an icon of manliness whom I was totally allowed to have a semi-shirtless poster of.  In my bedroom.  When I was thirteen.  _  No, I am not fucking kidding!” _

“This is fantastic.”

“It  _ is not!” _

“Tony.   _ Come on.” _

“You come on!” __

Lee gave Tony the massive eyeroll that he was, at this point, quite frankly earning.  “Do you think we actually know anyone who  _ hasn’t  _ jerked off to Captain America?”

That brought Tony up short, actually thinking about the question.  “Well, Zev has.  Maybe Henry?”

“Henry?  Really?  Of all the people you know, you think  _ Henry  _ would leave Captain America alone?”  

Tony shrugged in a gesture of ‘kinda’.  “He almost never masturbates, he usually just goes and has sex...”

“This I did not need to know.”  Lee paused.  “You don’t think...  You don’t think he’s actually  _ met  _ Steve, do you?”

Tony went still, thinking about it.  

Slowly, in unison, their heads tipped to the side as they considered the visual.

“...God, I hope so,” Tony said fervently.  

They both sipped their beers, contemplating the beauty and splendor of that particular mental image.

“...So, Steve aside,” Lee said eventually,  “Are you game to meet the  _ rest  _ of the Avengers?”

“Yeah, sure; why the hell not?”

 

* * *

 

At the end of the night, they parted ways, with Lee walking Tony to his car.  “This was fun,” Tony said, smiling up over the two inch height difference.  “Let’s do it again.”

“Yeah,” Lee agreed, bouncing up slightly on his toes.  “You’ll call me if it’s the end of the world and you want a hand, right?”

“What are you, crazy?  I can’t have you ruin your face a month before shooting!”

“Tony.”

“Yeah, fine.”  Tony looked out into the omnipresent Vancouver drizzle, then met Lee’s eyes again.  “I know.  I’ll call you.”

“Good.  Because you took Bri out tonight, and I know she’s going to be a crazy powerful wizard, but—”

“Trust me, you do not want to be there on Bri nights.”  Tony rolled his eyes.

“I heard.”  Lee smiled.  “Call me anyway.”

Tony tilted his head to the side, but his eyes flickered; side to side, and again, and then up at Lee.  

“Yeah,” he said.  He breathed out, deliberate and calming.  “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

“You did  _ what?!” _

Tony stepped back quickly as Amy picked up her stapler.  He’d seen her wield that thing, and he had no intention of being next.  

“I went out for drinks with Lee last night.”

“Oh.  My god.  Are you  _ stupid?”  _ she hissed.  “You can not do this again, Tony!  I saw you being this stupid the first time, and it was awful then, too!   _ Stop crushing on the straight boy!” _

“I mean, he’s had my dick in his mouth, I’m pretty sure he’s not straight.”  Tony paused for a minute distracted by a particular memory.  Then he realized how outraged Amy was getting at the creepy smile this produced, and held the expression a moment longer.

“You’re talking about Lee, aren’t you?  That face, I know that face; I haven’t seen it in a year, and now I’m remembering why that was a good thing.”  Zev flopped down in the spare chair, expertly catching his yarmulke when it slipped off and plopping it back on top of his head.  Amy rolled her eyes and dug out extra bobby pins from her desk drawer.  “What’s he done now?”

“He took Tony out on a date last night,” Amy filled in sweetly before Tony could get in a word.

Zev turned to him with accusing eyes.

“It wasn’t a date!” Tony insisted.  “It wasn’t!  We met up for drinks, we caught up, talked about the move, talked about the show, went home.  He didn’t even kiss me goodbye, and it  _ definitely.   _ Was  _ not.  _  A  _ date!” _

He crossed arms.

Zev and Amy exchanged  _ highly  _ dubious glances.  “I thought wizards see what’s there?” Zev said, arms over his head, re-pinning down the cap.

Amy snorted.  “Yeah?  Well, dumbasses don’t see jack.”

“Speaking of, I haven’t,” Tony pointed out.  “Seen Jack lately, that is.”

One delicately pointed eyebrow indicated that Amy wasn’t fooled by his attempted diversion.  “He’s out of town at a Mountie convention,” she said.  

This time Zev exchanged his glance with Tony.  

“Is that a real thing?”

“I don’t know, but I’m imagining the sea of red serge, and my mental eyeballs are bleeding.”

“Wait, is this why Amy’s been extra cranky lately?  Because her locally-grown di—”

“That’s enough.”  Silver glinted as a heavily-beringed hand went up in a stop signal.

_ “Has  _ she been?”  Zev affected a thoughtful tone.  “How could you tell, though?”

“I said, that’s  _ enough.”   _

Tony grinned, bumping his shoulder into Zev’s before sliding off the desk.  “Here, Kevin, I’ll take those sides,” he called, and the beleaguered PA paused in his dash past them to pass the sides over with a grateful look.  “Later, Amy!”

“I’ll get you, my pretty!” she called after him as he escaped into the costuming closet.

 

* * *

 

“And  _ was  _ it a date?” 

Henry’s voice was smoothly amused, the sounds of a club coming through behind him just vaguely enough that Tony could picture him standing on the street outside of it.  They were due to meet up the next night, but the cessation of their relationship made that an uncertain bet as far as feeding went; all things considered, it was best for both of them if Henry did his feeding this evening.

Besides which, he was on deadline, and the latest bodice ripper was just not flowing out of his fingers the way they used to.

“No!  I mean, how should I know?  But no.”

“Hmm.”

“Henry!  Damn it, what does that even mean?”  Tony scowled at nothing as he pulled the pizza he was reheating out of the microwave, taking a bite only for the too-hot cheese to burn his tongue badly enough he spit it out again.  “Ow!  Damn it!”

“That’s why you need to wait sixty seconds after the microwave turns off,” Henry informed him dryly.  

“You’re not even  _ here—ow!   _ Damn it, Purza!”

“Purza?”

“Uh—cat-sitting,” Tony managed.  “For a friend.  Purza is the  _ piece of shit cat  _ who is  _ not getting pizza,  _ so  _ don’t try it, furball!”  _ Purza glared, yellow-eyed, at him, and then twitched her tail and hopped down off the counter, proceeding regally to the sofa where she stepped into Tony’s usual spot, curled around, and sat down, her head Queen Victoria straight.  She finished it all off with a coolly dismissive glance, and then shut her eyes, not even close to actually going to sleep.  “You know, I was going to sit there,” Tony told her.  “You can sit on my lap if want, and we can watch the Second Doctor and Jamie together.  It’s a good offer, you should definitely take it.”

Purza opened one eye.  She did not look interested in either the Second Doctor or Jaime, but then, she hadn’t looked interested three nights ago, either, and they’d gotten through all of  _ The Tomb of the Cyberman  _ just fine.

“Hmm,” Henry said in his ear again.  Tony switched the phone to speaker and tossed it down beside him as he and his leftover pizza crawled into the second-best spot in the bed.  “I wasn’t aware any of your friends had cats.”

“Yeah, they mostly have better taste,” Tony snorted.  

“Tony.”  

It was distinctly unfair that, years after their breakup, Henry could still put that much lordly reproof into his voice.  

“Where did the cat come from?”

He groaned.  “Alright, so I made a new friend.  You haven’t met him, and also you are not allowed to meet him.  Ever.”

“Good,” said Henry.

“Good?”

“Yes, good.  It’s about time you move on after Lee.  I’ve been worried.”

Tony stared down at the phone sitting on his knee.  “You haven’t said anything.”  He didn’t let it be an accusation. Alright, not  _ much  _ of an accusation.  

Damn it, Henry wasn’t his dad!

“It wasn’t my place,” Henry answered mildly.  “But I’m glad to hear you have a new friend.”

“Huh.”  Tony bit into his pizza, now cooled enough to eat.  “So if I said I wasn’t actually dating this friend?”

“I would probably blame it on your table-manners,” Henry responded dryly.  “Swallow first, please.”

“That’s what she said,” Tony muttered under his breath.  

“Not usually to you, though. What’s wrong with him?”

“Who?”

“Your ‘friend,’ who is ‘just a friend’.”  Tony did not appreciate Henry’s use of air quotes, even being spared the actual physical gestures.  “Why just a friend.  He’s not straight, is he?”  He managed to sound profoundly dubious about this, as if the idea of Tony having more than one straight friend was a statistical improbability, and Jack had maxed him out.

“No!  I mean, well, now that you mention it... probably?  It doesn’t matter!  He came to me for help, okay?  I’m not going to just jump his bones!”

“Why not?”

Tony glared at the phone again as Purza started officiously cleaning her tail.  “Because he came to me for  _ help! _  I’m not going to take advantage, Henry, come on!”

“I didn’t say you should.  But if you would be providing whatever help he requires anyway—which, clearly, you are—then it’s hardly taking advantage to  _ also  _ pursue a relationship.”  Henry’s voice lightened.  “That is, assuming you’re interested.  Which I’m forming the impression you’re not?”

“Ehn?”  Tony thought about it, taking a bite of pizza, chewing, and swallowing before answering.  “He’s hot, sure, but... kind of messed up?  In the head, I mean.”  He twitched his mouth from side to side, then added, “He was held by some bad people for kind of a while.  They messed with his head pretty badly; PTSD is the least of it.”

“Hmm...  and what did he come to you for help with?”

“Fixing his head.”  Tony took another bite, watching Purza cautiously as she stood and stretched.  “He also looks a lot like Lee—like,  _ a lot  _ like Lee.  It would be pretty creepy.”

“Ah.”  Henry sounded disappointed for all of a second, and then, apparently, shrugged, to judge by the lightening of his voice.  “In that case... want to introduce me?”

Tony choked on pizza.  “Wow, no!  No, I sure don’t!  At all!  That will not be happening!  Ever!  Besides,” he added in more moderate tones, “he’s moved back to New York now; I don’t think he’s coming back to Vancouver at all.”

“Pity.”  

Tony shuddered at the wave of lasciviousness Henry managed to fit into two syllables.  

“Jesus, Henry, go eat before your overall horniness explodes and kills us all.”  he said, rolling his eyes.  “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.  In the meantime... I’m thinking Indian.”

Tony groaned and hung up on him, but he was smiling as he turned on the Troughton, nevertheless.

 

* * *

 

By mutual agreement, when they got together again in three days, Lee did not meet Tony at either the studio or the less-obvious-but-still-problematic Window Shot; instead, Tony went home and changed before meeting him at the indie pub closest to his apartment.  It was a nice place, the sort of place where the drinks were about three times as expensive as they needed to be but the tables and floors were both clean and un-sticky, the seats were well-cushioned, and the local acoustic bands rotated through.  Lee picked up the tab—insisted, since it was work-related and he could deduct it, although Tony suspected it had more to do with how much Lee got paid versus what Tony did—and as it happened, they did in fact spend most of the night talking about work.

That wasn’t where they started, though.

“First things first,” Tony declared.  “I need you to clarify something for me, because Amy and Zev have been playing hell with my confidence on this and I need reassurance.”

Lee blinked and raised his eyebrows.

“Drinks on Sunday:  definitely not a date?”

Lee snorted.  “No,” he said clearly.  “It was not a date.  It was drinks with a friend.  And this is a business meetup.”

“Good!  That’s good.”  Although Tony somehow suspected that most of Lee’s ‘business meetups’ didn’t spend that much time checking out Lee’s ass.  “That’s what I thought.  They were just...”

“I know how they can be,” Lee said.  “Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks.”

Tony smiled gratefully, and then cut his eyes away.

Well, this was awkward.

He tapped his fingers against his beer bottle, thinking.  

Lee peeled back the label of  _ his  _ beer bottle, apparently also thinking.

Okay, clearly  _ some  _ conversational gambit was being called for, here; Tony bit the bullet and lobbed a conversational grenade, and possibly that metaphor got a little mixed but  _ oh well— _ “So are you and your friend Isaac deliberately playing Cap-Bucky thing a little bit gay, or is that a cutting-room side-effect?”

Lee’s eyes widened and his mouth tightened.  “Sorry to break your heart, Tony, but Steve has said explicitly that he and Barnes never fooled around.”

Tony’s jaw dropped.  “You actually  _ asked?”  _

Lee raised one dark eyebrow.  “How else were we supposed to know how to play it?”

“Oh.”  He took a long pull of his beer.  “...Do you think he was telling the truth?”

“Yes,” Lee answered, just a little too fast.  

Tony frowned, going back over the conversation in his head, trying to find the wrong turn.  Lee looked around the bar while he thought, catching the waitress’ eye and holding up two fingers. 

It wasn’t until the blonde dropped off two more beers that Tony spotted it.  “Hey!  You never answered my question!  Oh, sorry—not you,” he added when the waitress looked over.

She snorted and walked away again.  Tony looked back at Lee, feeling accusatory.  “I asked about how you were  _ playing _ it, and you told me about how it  _ was.” _

Lee tilted his head to the side, looking amused...  But his back was straighter than it should have been, and his voice, when he spoke, was even more chocolaty-rich than usual.  “I am very deliberately playing Barnes as someone who only sleeps with women; Isaac is playing Steve as someone who won’t initiate sex at all.”

Tony blinked, re-shuffling several thoughts.  “You think he’s ace?”

Lee choked on his beer.  

“No!  He’s not ace, he’s just...”  He licked his lower lip, clearly remembering some incident and also _ wreaking havoc on Tony’s mental stability, _ and then he squinted in the direction of the TV hanging over the bar, looking at it without really seeing.  “I think Steve  _ expects  _ people to be uninterested,” he said eventually, “so he only really thinks about others in terms of attraction if they’ve already given him a very clear yes.”

Tony absently tapped his fingers against his thigh under the table, where they wouldn’t make any sound.  “Does he not have a mirror?”

Lee laughed out loud, this time, green eyes crinkling under thick, dark lashes.  “It’s not always about that.”

“No,” Tony agreed, and his treacherous brain decided to pitch in:   _ For example, sometimes it’s about the way a guy chuckles as if he’s keeping a secret... _

_ No!  Damnit!   _

_ Bad thought!   _

Out loud, he added, “But a lot of the time it  _ is  _ about that.”

“Not to Steve...”  Lee shrugged, and made a self-mocking face, as if embarrassed at his own knowledge of the situation.  “...And, especially, not back then.  I think he’s gotten a lot more used to his body as time’s gone on.”

Tony frowned—there was something  _ off  _ about this whole conversation—but he wasn't quite able to spot the stray thread of thought he was worrying at.  He sipped his beer, instead, and allowed Lee to change the subject to the recount the epic adventures of the show’s death-defying location scouts.

 

* * *

 

“Do you want to share a cab?” Lee offered two hours later, as they were standing outside the pub, waiting for Lee’s ride.  “I can have the cabbie drop you off at home; it’s not far, and it’s right on my way.”  

Tony looked over (and a bit up), thinking over the offer.  

On the one hand, small enclosed space with Lee?  Probably a bad idea.  But on the other hand, it was raining, and he was tipsy, and Lee, he remembered, had a tendency to run warm.   _ And I’ve missed that.  No!  Damnit, bad thought again! _

A blast of cool air made up his mind for him.  “Sure,” he said.  “I’ll throw you five bucks?” 

“You don’t need to,” Lee dismissed.  “You can buy me a coffee when we start shooting or something.”

Tony smiled crookedly.  “You know, just because you delay it doesn’t mean I’ll forget.  I am going to pay you back.”

“Sure,” Lee said agreeably, looking away and up the street towards the oncoming taxi.  He stepped forward and got the door when the car pulled to a stop, gesturing Tony in ahead of him.

“Thanks.”  Tony scooted sideways towards the door, trying to put some room between himself and Lee.

It didn’t work; even with his side pressed to the far door, Tony could still feel Lee’s heat coming out into the space between them.

_ This is a bad idea,  _ he thought desperately.   _ This was a terrible, awful, no-good—oh, hey, what is he doing?   _

Lee was looking over at him, his mouth glistening in the slanting streetlight where he had licked it.  

“Yeah?” Tony said, not-at-all-suavely before the half-impatient expression on Lee’s face penetrated the fog of old, low-level arousal.

Lee’s mouth quirked, which was another thing Tony needed to not look at.  

“The driver needs your address,” he said.

“Oh.  Uh, right.”  Tony gulped, blinking, and then sat up and gave the driver his damned address.  

Because he was a grown up.  

And could do things like that.

_ Sure,  _ he thought mockingly.  

Oh, this was  _ such  _ a bad idea...

 

* * *

 

It was only three blocks, and then the taxi pulled up to the curb beside Tony’s building.  Lee got out and held the door for Tony, which unfortunately put him very close when Tony straightened up.  

Very close.

And Lee was  _ looking at his goddamned mouth again!   _

Lee’s mouth opened, but then Lee hesitated, and didn’t say anything.

Didn’t say anything.

...Waited...

_ Tony  _ wasn’t saying anything, either.

Lee’s mouth closed again, and his shoulders slumped:  resignation.  He must have changed his mind on whatever it was he was thinking of saying...

_ Five dollars and a doughnut says I can tell you exactly what it was,  _ Tony thought with what felt like a necessary level of bitchiness.

Lee edged around Tony, ducking back down and preparing to get back in the cab, to drive away to the other side of town where Tony couldn’t reach him or see him or—

Tony, unable to stand it any longer, blurted, “Do you want to come up?”

Lee’s head jerked up so fast that he whacked it on the side of the cab.  Wincing, rubbing it with the meaty part of his palm, he moved so that he could meet Tony’s eyes.  His voice was extra rough when he said, “I thought this wasn’t a date?”

_ Wizards see what’s there,  _ Tony’s brain nagged.

Lee’s voice was rough  _ with hope  _ when he said, “I thought this wasn’t a date”.

There was something to be said for professional experience, and something else to be said for having been together for four years; Tony knew exactly how to drop his eyelids, how to make his mouth look gleaming and wet as he offered, “This doesn’t have to change that.”

Even in the half-light of the streetlamps, he could still see Lee’s pupils dilate.  It was probably a testament to Lee being a genuinely good person that he paused long enough to say, “It will probably change something, though.”

Tony bit his lip.  “I genuinely don’t care.”  And if his own voice was a little rough, too, well...  he wouldn’t admit it.

Lee dropped his gaze to where Tony’s teeth were denting his lip, then made a rough, desperate noise in his throat.  He paused only long enough to swipe a card through the reader in the back of the cab before following Tony up the stairs.  

 

* * *

 

They were kissing before they made the first landing, Lee’s hands curled into the collar of Tony’s jacket and jerking him in close, hauling him in  _ too  _ close, pressing their bodies together all down the long length of them until Tony made a low sound into Lee’s mouth.  

Lee snickered and pulled back half an inch, one eyebrow flicking upward.  “Did you just growl?”

“...No.”

“Yes, you did.”  Luckily, Lee didn’t seem offended, his voice rich with amusement.  He pressed himself against Tony again before shoving them in the direction of the next flight of stairs.  

They stumbled upwards together, Tony backward, Lee’s lips on his driving him crazy with—oh god, he was sucking on Tony’s lower lip, Tony could no longer function, he was gone, and he  _ absolutely did not care— _

Lee’s hands pushed against his chest, the left—no, the right; the one on Tony’s left,  _ fuck!  _ and _ What are directions, even? _ —dropping downwards to Tony’s hip, pushing him back up another step before Lee stepped up into his space and ground into him.  Lee’s other hand came down on the other side from the first, gripping, digging into the pockets Tony’s skinny jeans,  _ oh god it felt great...   _ Lee braced and spun Tony around so that he was facing up the stairs, the swatted Tony firmly on the ass.

Tony took the hint, and took off up to his floor.

By the time he was crowding in with Lee against his door, they were both breathing heavy, gasping into each other’s mouths.  Lee’s hands were groping Tony’s ass hard enough to occasionally pull him onto his toes, and Tony was having an awfully hard time making his fingers work, dropping his keys on the floor when he tried to get them in the lock.  He swore and reached downward, but he didn’t get as far as bending over before Lee pressed him against the door, pressing his mouth to the back of Tony’s neck and kissing, sucking, biting,  _ marking  _ him, a deep, slightly-left-of-center bruise that went on, and on, and  _ on,  _ and Tony was moaning and humping the door and he absolutely  _ did not give a fuck,  _ he could do this  _ all night long— _ “Fuck, fuck, goddamnit, Lee, Lee,  _ Lee!   _ You have to let me open the door, we can’t do this in the hallway,  _ FUCK!”  _

With one final shove of his body against Tony’s, Lee went still, breathing out rough and shaky against Tony’s throat before saying, “Open the door, then.”  The rough velvet of his voice was cracked and taut, and Tony realized that Lee’s hand, lying against the door at the end of an arm pressed into the wood beside Tony’s head, was shaking.

_ Yeah, fuck this _ , Tony thought, out of patience and coordination to reach down and pick up the keys, but it didn’t take any effort at all for the keys to rise through the air and smack into his waiting palm.  He found the right one, fumbling the set for a moment before twisting it in the lock, turning the knob, and stumbling through.  Lee was a warm, urgent presence at his heels, grabbing his shoulder and turning him, and then he was shoving Tony’s back into the wall beside the door and Tony made a noise, some kind of  _ really embarrassing  _ noise if he thought about it, which Jesus  _ fuck  _ he was  _ not going to do,  _ something like a petulant snarl.  He bit Lee’s jaw; not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to sting.  Lee wasn’t fucking around; he was panting and hard, his hands going straight to Tony’s belt, and yes,  _ yes,  _ this was happening—thank  _ God,  _ because it had been  _ too goddamned long— _ and Tony sucked in a sharp breath through his nose—

—and smelled cherries.

For a moment, he didn’t even process it, didn’t even  _ care. _

And then—

_ “GOD DAMN IT!!!”   _

Something, hopefully something plaster-based and not skull-based, make a cracking sound when Tony slammed his head back against the wall.  Lee echoed the gesture, thunking the top of his head forward as if headbutting the wall could express his pure, atrociously cockblocked frustration.

Or something.

_ Possibly  _ Tony was projecting.

Also, there was another smell under the cherries—Tony sniffed—something like the lemon-scented cleanser-wipes he’d kept under the counter.  

Resigned, Tony looked around his apartment.  It was definitely cleaner than it had been when Tony left to get to the bar.  There was only one person Tony could think of who would break into his apartment and start cleaning, so...  

_ “Barnes!  Get out here!”  _

“I  _ am  _ out here.”

Lee  _ jerked,  _ snapping back from Tony—which, honestly,  _ kind of to be expected— _ and then  _ grabbed the fucking floor lamp  _ and  _ threw it like a javelin,  _ which— _ holy shit!— _ was  _ not to be expected at all, what the hell!   _

“What the hell, Lee?!” Tony repeated out loud, stunned by the violent response from his boyfriend—shit, ex!  He meant his  _ ex- _ boyfriend!—who was normally so level-headed.

Lee was backed against the apartment door, staring at his doppelganger with eyes opened wide in indignant alarm.  

Barnes, ghosting in from the kitchen area on bare feet, tipped his head to the side, studying Lee.  The sudden silence in the apartment at Barnes’s appearance was broken only by Tony’s and Lee’s harsh breathing, the sounds of their frantic arousal soured into alarm.   Tony’s pulse was still going a million miles an hour, and, having gone from _ horny as hell  _ to  _ horrified  _ in the space of about three seconds, he could feel his skin clamming up.  

“My fault,” Barnes said, gesturing at the lamp, his voice flat with something tenser than true indifference.  “I startled you, I guess.”

“Fuuuuuck!” Tony groaned, and pounded his fist back against the wall a few more times for good measure.  He eyed the two, eerily similar dark-haired men in his living room, then gave up and whined, a long, thin note of protest.  “This was  _ not  _ how I was hoping I would be ending my evening,” he shouted up at the universe.

_ “Shut the fuck up!!!”  _ screamed back his neighbor, pounding the other side the wall a few times for good measure.

Tony sighed, hating his life, and went to go see if Barnes had made coffee.

 

* * *

 

“I’m just saying, this would be less awkward if you had chairs,” Lee insisted, perching on the edge of the folded-up sofa.  

“This would be less awkward if we hadn’t just gotten cockblocked.”

“That, too.”

Despite the pointed glare Lee sent him, though, Barnes didn’t look very repentant, sitting on the other end of the sofa, hands tucked in the front pocket of the anonymous gray hoodie he was wearing.  He gave his own glare back, a flat, pissy sort of look.  Lee tried to reconcile it with the footage of Barnes from the newsreels, and found it horribly unfamiliar:  Barnes  _ then  _ had been a laughing, friendly young man, the sort that charmed grandmothers into passing him an extra slice of pie, or would have, if there’d been pie in the Great Depression.   _ This  _ Barnes was sullen, damaged and angry in a way that burned silent on a very long fuse.  

_ What happened to him?  How did he survive all these years—frozen in the snowy alps the same way Steve was in Greenland?  But they searched the crevasse, and never found him.   _

_ Maybe someone else found him first, and kept him cold?  But why? _

_ Of course, there  _ is  _ another explanation...   _

And it was an explanation that Lee already knew on an unfortunately personal level was possible, too.  

“You’re not a vampire, are you?” 

The look Barnes gave him was gratifyingly incredulous, and assured him without words that no, Barnes was not Henry’s long-lost vampire-kin.

Although this left Lee back at the drawing board for an explanation of Barnes’ youth, so he wasn’t sure why he was relieved by that knowledge...

_ Well, think:  we know he had some kind of serum.   _ Steve had confirmed that way back in the beginning of their friendship.   _ Sooner or later, that’s probably going to be at the heart of his survival.  It’s just  _ how  _ it came into play that’s a mystery.   _

Lee remembered the amount of  _ nothing  _ which had landed in his mind after the spell in March, and mentally amended,  _ How it came into play, and also, what’s been messing with his mind?  _

He tried to imagine having no memory of himself, no idea who he was or where he came from.  He failed; even when he was playing a role, he was still  _ Lee  _ underneath.   _ Being without that...  Being so empty, so formless...  Like a hunk of dough which has been allowed to rise but not shaped into a loaf or baked, he’d be raw, malleable...   _

Lee shivered.

“Here.”  

Tony was in front of him, holding out a cup of coffee.  He had gotten the milk/sugar ratio correct.

_ Of course he did.  We dated for almost five years, and also  _ Tony  _ doesn’t have amnesia! _

Still.  

It was nice that he’d remembered.

“Thanks,” Lee said, accepting the cup, and Tony flicked a smile at him before turning away.

“So if you’re not a vampire...” Lee started as Tony passed a second mug to Barnes and turned back towards the kitchen area to grab his own mug.  Lee intended to finish his sentence with,  _ then how did you survive for sixty years without aging?   _ Before he could complete the thought, though, the black and white cat which had been sniffing at Lee’s trousers apparently decided he was acceptable.  She hopped into his lap—she was obviously a kitten, but still, her full weight on pointy little pause was a little painful—and then strolled down, across the empty seat between Lee and Barnes, and into Barnes’ lap, where she kneaded, turned in a circle, and settled down like an Etruscan queen on her pillows.

At which point, Barnes reached out to pet her, and all of Lee’s questions dried up and blew away like autumn leaves on the wind.

Barnes was using his right hand to hold the coffee mug, which meant his left hand was the only one available to pet the cat.

His  _ metal  _ left hand.

 

* * *

 

“He did  _ what?” _

“Carried me safely to the QuinJet,” Bruce repeated, “Wrapped me in a mylar blanket, and made a hot cup of tea for me.  He guarded me while I slept, and then, when I woke up, he drank from both cups so that I would know the tea wasn’t drugged.”  He was back in his lab, reviewing a set of petri dishes that he had been allowing to grow in the incubator while he was out of town.  So far, none of them showed any signs of bacterial growth, and Bruce sighed with disappointment.  

“Just checking, here...”  Tony was lounging against the doorway, half-in and half-out of the lab, as if he didn’t want to intrude on Bruce’s space even while he wanted to know about how the mission had gone.  It was one of those strange juxtapositions of Tony; for a man who gave every impression of not caring a fig for societal norms, Tony could be oddly considerate.  

Bruce had never liked people in his lab, even  _ before  _ one of his experiment had gone wrong and people had started trying to kill him.

“...but the guy who wrapped you up in a blanket like you were his sick Aunt Molly...  That  _ was  _ the Winter Soldier, right?  Assassin?  Been on the run for a couple months now?  Shot Nick Fury three times through a wall?”

“Mm-hmm.”  Bruce huffed in irritation and swept all of the barren petri dishes into a plastic tub, which he carried over to the red plastic biohazard bag.  “You know, I was inclined to think this anyway, but his conduct really only confirms it:  this man is not naturally a killer.”

“Glad you think so, Bruce.”  Steve stood in the doorway behind Tony, and Bruce suppressed a smile at the jump and yelp the Tony had given when he spoke.  “Because I’m planning on recruiting him.”

“You’re planning on  _ what?”  _

“Recruiting him.”  Steve’s tone was even and simple, as if he were outlining the most obvious course of action in the world, but his eyes were hard and prepared for a fight, if need be.  “He’s obviously got skills, he seems kindly inclined towards the Avengers—if skittish—and he clearly has a vendetta against HYDRA, I’m guessing due to the way they used and deceived him, not necessarily in that order.  He’d be an asset.”

_ That was what HYDRA called him, too,  _ Bruce thought, but he didn’t say anything.  Instead, he just hummed and took a vial of viscous green fluid out of the refrigerator, setting it on the counter before putting a new tip on the automatic pipette.  He transferred three hundred milliliters of the green liquid—actually Hulk blood, spun until the platelets separated—into a sterile volumetric flask, then filled the rest with hot agar solution from the jar in the autoclave, swirling to mix it in.   

“‘Hmm’?” Tony quoted him, sounding both incredulous and pissed at his lack of reaction.  “How about ‘No’?”

“Why not?”  But Steve wasn’t really asking; he was more fishing for objections he could smack down, and Bruce frowned, wondering how long he should give them before he decided to kick them both out to argue somewhere else.

“Try,  _ because he’s a goddamned assassin!”  _ Tony exploded.  He was too emphatic for the subject at hand, but then, Tony was frequently... hmmm...  _ decisive  _ in his opinions.  But on the other hand, so was Steve, Bruce reflected as Tony continued:  “Or try,  _ because we don’t know what he’s done. _  And we both know that when somebody  _ else  _ figures that out first, we don’t want to have to apologize for—”

“That doesn’t make any difference.  If we were to close ourselves to anybody who  _ might  _ have a past or something to hide—”

“—Yeah, yeah, the team would be down to you and the ghost of Phil Coulson—”

“—We would be  _ hypocrites,  _ because  _ all  _ of us have our potential public relations disasters—”

“—Who is alive, by the way, I just thought you might want to know that—”

“He’s  _ what?”  _

“Yeah, that’s what I said—hey, isn’t it shitty to keep secrets from each other?”

Bruce raised his eyebrows as he silently poured the agar into new plates.  Tony had asked that last bit as if it were significant, as if he were calling Steve out on something, but for the life of him Bruce had no idea what it might be.

Steve stared at Tony, helplessly silent, and Bruce carried the agar broth over to the plates arranged, waiting, on the counter on the other side of the room.  He was an old hand at this, well-practiced in the pour-then-stack-then-uncover-the-next-plate maneuver necessary to get clean plates with no contamination.  There were nearly three hundred of the shallow, three-inch plastic dishes set out, and Bruce knew from experience that this flask of agar wouldn’t be enough, but he still managed to pour the agar into thirty-three of them before Steve choked and fled.  On the forty-fifth, Tony growled and followed.

Bruce sighed, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a sleeve-covered elbow, then went back to pouring agar. 

“JARVIS, lock the lab, please.  And let me know when they’ve worked out whatever that was.”

“As you say, sir.”

 

* * *

 

Steve had told him a lot about the Winter Soldier, really.

Lee had the impression that there was a certain amount of grudging respect there.  Steve wasn’t a huge fan of assassination, but even he would grudgingly admit that there were certain figures—Hitler, Pol Pot, the guy who invented  _ Flappy Bird _ —who might be viable targets.  And the fact that the Soldier had been told, every time, that he was working for the good guys... it went a long way, with Steve.

Steve, Lee was pretty sure, was under the impression that the Soldier  _ was  _ one of the good guys.  He was slowly trying to convince his team of it, too, and the team, from what Lee had seen, were cautiously in agreement.

Steve didn’t know  _ this, _ though.  And Lee was absolutely certain that Steve—already acting unconventionally in regards to the Soldier—was going to go  _ absolutely bonkers  _ when he found out.

On the other hand...

“Why haven’t you just gone to Steve?” Lee asked.  It came out blunt, and exhausted—which: fair—and not particularly patient, but goddamnit, it was a good question!  Barnes had to know— _ had  _ to know—that Steve would have crawled over hot coals if it meant getting Barnes back safe. 

Literally; Steve put a lot of trust in his healing factor.  

Barnes gave him a flat look.  “I ain’t the guy I was in the war,” he said.  The metal hand was still moving over the cat, and that, more than anything, was the thing that belied Barnes’ words.  That hand could withstand the Shield, it could (apparently) punch through solid metal... and here it was, barely denting the fur of the black and white kitten who clearly loved Barnes above all else.

On the other hand, Barnes probably didn’t know that  _ Lee  _ knew about the whole “assassin” thing.  But Lee knew what Steve knew, and Steve—who had a history of making snap judgements about character, snap judgements that were  _ pretty much always correct—Steve  _ thought the Winter Soldier was one of the good guys. 

Cats made judgements like that, too, Lee remembered.  

The little kitten continued to kneed Barnes’ massive thigh, and purr.

“You know what...?  I call bullshit,” Lee said.

“What.”

“I call bullshit,” he repeated.  “You’re not the same guy, okay, fine; but what’s so different?”

Barnes was looking at him half like he were speaking Fulani, half like he he had just slapped him across the face.  

Except that with the Soldier’s programming, there was a good chance Barnes understood Fulani, and on the slapping front, Lee would never have even gotten close.  

“I’ve done,” Barnes said, then stopped.  He stared at Lee, and Lee just let him, not pushing, but not backing down, either.  Barnes opened his mouth, closed it again; opened again to say, “I’ve done some bad things in the meantime, Lee Nicholas.”

“Sure,” Lee agreed.  “Everybody does things they regret.  I took a part in _ Amazons in Space: 5!” _

Barnes shot him a glare like a wet cat at that one.  “It’s not.  The same.”

“No, it sure isn’t,” Lee shot back, instantly.  “You know why?”

The hand petting the cat stilled.  “Why?”

“Because when I took a part in  _ Amazons in Space: 5?  _  I had the option to turn that down.”  Barnes made an abortive movement that startles the cat into wakefulness, then froze so that she merely stretched and stayed in his lap, tucking her head back down at a more comfortable angle.  When he looked up again, Lee was already regardingly him evenly, loosely; trying to keep the tension out of his body.  

Lee was a good actor, but it was still a pretty tall task.  

“If you had told them you weren’t doing it,” Lee asked, keeping his voice mellow, low, “what would they have done to you?”

Barnes twitched again, but this time it was all upper-body and the cat didn’t move.

He didn’t answer the question, but Lee was pretty sure they were all grateful about that one.  

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

And  _ stretched. _

Tony was fidgeting, and he had that look on his face.  The one that was always followed a minute later by something really,  _ really  _ dorky, and frankly Lee was not sure how that would play right now.  “Look,” he sighed before Tony could speak, “I said I wouldn’t tell him that Bucky Barnes was alive.”  

He paused.

Barnes tensed.

He sighed, and continued, “I still won’t.  But I  _ will  _ tell him where you are and how to find you—aka  _ the Winter Soldier,  _ right?—and when he finds out  _ for himself  _ that you’re his Bucky, and you were avoiding him...  That’s not going to go over well.”  

It was amazing how much like a fire Barnes’ eyes could look, considering they were eyeballs and also blue.  “You’re not telling him.  Anything.”  

More concerning than the glare, Barnes’ right hand moved in such a way that Lee suspected he was going for a weapon.  

Lee felt sweat start to build under his hairline at the back, and swallowed.

Then he lifted his chin and squared his shoulders, tilting his head to the side for just a little hint of cockiness.  He let the muscles of his cheeks go slack, a little bit, just a hint more than they would be normally.  

Barnes stared, shock flickering in his pale eyes.

Good. 

Lee had worked  _ hard  _ to nail this particular expression; he called it the Brave!Bucky look, and it was probably  _ creepy as hell  _ for Barnes to have it looking back at him.

“I’ll give you two weeks,” Lee said firmly, “while I finish my vacation here and help Tony move to New York.  Then I’m sending Steve after you, and if I have to do that, I am telling him  _ everything.”   _

He cocked an eyebrow, and Barnes glared.

The room was silent again.  

Deliberately, and with a reasonable amount of speed—no superspeed, and Lee wasn’t sure whether to be less intimidated or more, by that—Barnes drew a gun and pointed it in Lee’s face.

_ Gun!  _ Lee’s brain screamed at him—or rather,  _ Bucky’s  _ brain did, because that was a holdover from the memory transfer last March.   _ Gun!  Gun!  Gun gun gun gun gun gun gun gun— _

It made it very hard to focus.

On the other hand, Lee had worked with Mason Reed and Mason Reed’s ego in a haunted house with CB’s daughters and a man he was experiencing a hitherto unprecedented level of attraction to, and his performance in that particular episode had gotten nominated for the “S. S. Jaymond’s Hottest Smoulder” award, so fuck it.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Lee said, keeping his tone measured, controlled, keeping his volume low.  His heart was beating about a billion beats a minute, but his expression was mild, or at least mostly.  

The gun barrel was a very long tunnel before him, and he couldn’t quite make himself look away.

“I should,” Barnes said.  His voice cracked, though.

Lee breathed in and out in relief.  “Yeah,” he admitted, “probably.  But you’re not gonna—”  At some point in this, he had slipped into Bucky-voice, and he wasn’t going to try to pull out of it now.  “—for two reasons.  One, more important—like I said, you’re a good person.”  His volume was so low now that anyone without super-hearing would have been leaning forward to hear him, although Barnes wasn’t, which—didn’t really tell Lee anything he didn’t already know.  

He knew a lot about the man.  

He had  _ studied  _ him.

“I know your face,” Lee said with a confidence he didn’t particularly feel.  “I know what a bluff looks like on it.”  Thankfully, Barnes had relatively few of Lee’s acting abilities from the transfer.  “I know you got no intention of firing, even if it wouldn’t alienate the only guy able to help you regain your memories.  That  _ is  _ why you came to Tony, right?  Why you enlisted his help?  Hey, did the Scooby Squad join in?”  He managed to direct that last one to Tony without ever taking his eyes off of Barnes and the  _ gun gun gun gun gun!  _ still pointed at his face, but it didn’t matter because—“No, wait, they did, because you were the one who took the picture at the THC premier party.  Nice job with that, by the way.  

“So you came to them for help, and they  _ offered it—”   _ Because  _ of course they did.   _ “—and you expect me to believe that you’re going to turn around and repay that by shooting me in the _ face?   _ I’ve studied you for the last year and half, and I’ve  _ never  _ seen any indication that you were that kind of a jackass.” 

He might  _ want  _ to shoot people in the face, but unless they had it coming—which Lee  _ didn’t,  _ here—he wasn’t going to.  It was one of the things Lee had connected to in Barnes-the-Character, actually; the sassy internal voice which he kept suppressing because he was, at heart, actually very nice.  Lee also suspected it was one of the reasons Bucky had been friends with Steve; Steve was a mouthy little  _ shit  _ who did, actually, say his bitching aloud and followed through when he wanted to punch the people in the face.  

It was refreshing to be around if you were as buttoned down as Lee was.

But the upside of it all was, Barnes now, even after decades of being a terrifying assassin—Lee kept the mocking ‘spooky’ noise purely mental— _ wasn’t going to shoot him.   _

Barnes himself looked significantly less convinced of this, although he was obviously shaken by Lee’s assessment.

“What’s the other reason?” he asked, voice muted with a sort of unnerved sound that told Lee he had hit the nail on the head.

Lee raised one eyebrow again, and shrugged.  “With what gun?” he asked.

Barnes frowned, then did an almost comic double-take when he saw that his hand was empty.

Tony emptied the gun swiftly—Lee blinked, abruptly turned on and wondering where the  _ hell  _ Tony had learned to do that—and tossed it on the counter.  “Yeah, let’s  _ never do that again,”  _ he told them both.  “Barnes, get out.  Leave the cat, I will bring her to New York and you can visit me there, but for now—you broke in and threatened my b—my guest, and that is Not Okay—”

“I don’t mind,” Lee said, rolling out his shoulders now that the tense part was done.  “I threatened him, first.”

"Okay, but—no.  No, that's not—”

"Tony, it's fine—”

"It is  _ not fine—” _

"Tony!"

"—Because it  _ scared the shit out of me, _ and I am  _ not okay with that!” _

Tony glared at Lee, and Lee glared right back.

"I'm sorry it scared you," he said, his voice just as level and tense as it had been a moment ago with Barnes.  "But he wasn't really threatening me.  No," he held his hand up, "he wasn't.  Did I look threatened?  Sound threatened?"  It wasn't a real question; Lee was very, very good at knowing what he looked and sounded like.  "He was  _ flailing, _ is what he was doing; groping around for something to hang on to, some way to feel in control again."  

Lee maybe knew something about what that was like.

Tony maybe did, too.

"He did it with a gun to your face," Tony said.  His eyes were wide and serious.  "I don't care.  I literally do not care why he was doing it.  Your face...  It actually matters to me.  I need it to hang around.  No more pointing guns at it, ever."

_ Well,  _ Lee thought, his pulse jumping in his throat again,  _ there’s really no other way to take that.   _ He felt himself melting inside, warmth starting in his stomach and creeping outward through his limbs.   _ We’re not dating,  _ he reminded himself.   _ Tonight was just going to be a hookup.   _

There was a limit to the size of the lies Lee could tell himself.

_ It’s not a hookup. _

No way to tell himself anything else, not in the face of the evidence Tony had just provided.

_ He still cares. _

And something else Lee couldn’t help but acknowledge:  

_ So do I. _

“Tony...  I—”

"It's okay."  

They both jumped a little when Barnes spoke.  

He smirked, very faintly, at the sight.  "It's okay," he repeated.  "I'll just take Purza, here, and go, I don't have to—I don't need a place to crash.  And I'll have to get back across the border sooner or later, so..."  He shrugged one shoulder—the right; the left was rock-still, the hand still gently pressing over the cat's fur.  "...sooner is fine."

Tony’s face was completely blank, not with obfuscation—although he had a surprisingly good poker-face in threat-type situations—but with exhaustion.  “You should at least confer with Jack and Amy,” he said.  “They’ve been looking into things for you, it’s the least you can do.”

Barnes nodded.  “Call Jack.  I’ll meet you on set tomorrow.”

Lee glared at Tony.  “You took him on  _ set?”  _

Tony glared back.  “They save the world on a regular basis—or, like, at least Vancouver—I think they can handle a single, traumatized vet.”

“Tony.”

Tony crossed his arms stubbornly.  “Daniel  _ loves him.”   _

_ “Tony!” _

Barnes reached down to the floor on the far side of the couch and grabbed a duffle bag, which he unzipped and left open on the couch.  He gentle moved the cat aside—she woke and stretched, then wandered over to sniff at the unzipped duffle curiously—and got up, sorting out her food and water containers, and loading them and the food itself into a shopping bag.  “You can just dump the litter box,” he told Tony, “I’ll pick up a new one, and maybe a travel-cage.”  

Then he walked back to the couch, zipped up his bag—the cat had helpfully inserted herself into it already—and went to the door.  

Something about the process of him exiting the room seemed eerie to Lee, something off and vaguely threatening.  After a moment, Lee was able to process what it was:  he hadn’t looked back at them even once as he left.

When he was gone, Tony came back over to the couch, slumping down beside Lee with his head tilted back against the headrest, eyes closed, and his arms splayed out to his sides.  “So,” he said, sounded shellshocked, “That happened.”

Lee chuckled.

Tony cracked one eye.  “You’re laughing?”

“Mostly at you.”

He closed the eye again.  “Asshole,” he sighed.

“Yup.”  

Lee almost chickened out, right then.  God knew he’d done it enough times before:  come close, come closer, and then turned away.  It would have been easy to do it again.  

But, hey:  maybe he had gotten something from Barnes in that mental transfer, after all, some smidgen of bravery...  

...because when he told himself to man up, it actually worked.  

He curled his hand around Tony’s head, his fingers wrapping around the back by Tony’s neck.  Tony’s eyes flew opened, and he moaned, his spine melting so that he slumped over towards Lee.  Lee put his other arm around Tony and drew him in, cradling him against his chest and kissing him firmly, possessive but sweet, with no tongue but all of his heart.

Tony’s hand found its way into Lee’s hair, the fingers tightening to pull in a familiar, gut-tensingly good way, and Lee mentally sighed before, reluctantly, drawing back.  

_ “Your  _ asshole,” he told Tony, who laughed.

“Yeah, well.  Only because I love you,” he said, burying his head against Lee’s chest.

“Nope.”  Lee dropped a kiss on Tony’s mouth, a quick one, but Tony still opened hopefully when he did it, and Lee couldn’t help smirking a little at the sight.

“No?”

“Hm...  Also because  _ I _ love you.”

“Uh-huh.”  Tony shoved, cuddling into Lee.  “We are  _ fucking terrible  _ at the being casual thing,” he observed.

Lee snorted.  “See previous response.”   He shoved at Tony’s shoulder.  “Problem for another day,” he said firmly.  “Let me up.”

“Why?” Tony asked, moving over so Lee could rise.

“Because I’m leaving.  And  _ you  _ are getting some sleep, because you are this close to falling over and snoring on me.”

Tony tensed, and Lee kneeled in front of him, putting a hand on his knee.  “I’ll see you before I go back to New York,” he promised.  “This conversation...”  He gestured between the two of them with his free hand, squeezing Tony’s knee with the other.  “...isn’t done.  We both know that.”

He tried a smile.

Tony didn’t smile back, studying him with serious eyes.   _ Wizards see what’s there,  _ Lee remembered him saying, and then wondered, not for the first time, what exactly that might be in this case.  

Then Tony nodded to himself, and reached for Lee again.  

This time, the hand he tangled in Lee’s hair was firmer, stronger, more deliberate; the kiss he sucked Lee down with was possessive, claiming, half tongue and half teeth and all obsession, and when it ended a long, soul-searing minute later, Lee realized that he had been moaning completely subconsciously, too lost in Tony to be aware he was doing it.  

“Okay,” Tony said, visibly bracing himself before letting go.  “Okay.  We’ll talk before you leave, got it.”

And then he smirked, that fabulous, sassy, confident smirk that had first captured Lee’s attention—the one that had nothing at all to do with being a wizard.  He brushed a thumb over Lee’s lower lip, and Lee almost went face-first into his lap.  “Good thing I left you with something to think about in the meantime.”

Holy god.

Lee made a mental note to ensure they talked  _ soon. _

 

* * *

 

Tony was still on set when Lee arrived, but thankfully Barnes was already in the office, leaning on the counter to talk serious-faced to Amy as Jack listened attentively.  Jack's eyes widened when he saw Lee, and he straightened immediately, rising from his borrowed rolling-chair—the office was empty except for Amy, everybody else apparently having gone home—to stand next to Barnes.

Amy sat up, too.

Well.

It was more of a "stiffen," really.

She sat more erect, anyway.

Barnes turned, but he managed to convey as he did it that he was turning for eye contact, not because he needed to identify who was behind him.  He definitely already knew that part from the reactions around him.

Lee's stomach sank.  Amy still hadn't forgiven him, them.

Yeah, this was gonna be fun...

"So you're helping?" Barnes asked.  His voice was soft and level, very different from the dark intensity of the previous night, and Lee made a mental note to wonder— _ later— _ how much Barnes' psychological state varied over the course of, say, a week.  

"I thought it might be in my best interests," Lee said mildly.  "All things considered."  

He met Barnes' eyes squarely, and Barnes half-smiled in a rueful acknowledgement.  All he said out loud, though, was, "Thank you."

And then he didn't say anything.

Amy glared furiously at Lee, who was apparently an uncouth barbarian for daring to invade her precious workplace—never mind that she was usually trying her best to avoid work, and definitely never mind that it used to be  _ Lee's  _ workplace, too—and also didn't say anything.

_ Lee _ certainly wasn't planning on saying anything.  He was comfortable with silence and vastly preferred it to yelling, which was Amy's other primary mode of communication.  

Besides which, if worst came to worst, he had brought a book.

Jack groaned, loudly.  "Oh,  _ come on!   _ I  _ know _ you two are both adults, because CB won't pay for child labor and I won't fuck a kid.  Fucking  _ act like it!" _

Barnes' eyes widened and he backed up a step; Amy reared back like a poisonous snake getting ready to bite the  _ hell  _ out of someone—even odds on whether it would be Lee or Jack.

Lee blanked his own face, rising above himself the way he did before getting into character; the way he did before choosing a character to get into, sometimes.  His own form of armor.

But he really hadn't stopped to consider the overall character of Jack, who would always,  _ always, _ rather be on the offensive.  "Lee, you fucked over our friend.  Own it."

"I have," Lee said mildly.  He ruthlessly ignored the way he had been chasing down the same damned path again, circling and circling because he couldn't be around Tony without wanting to be  _ with _ Tony—a fact that he really should have learned five years ago, when it became obvious the first time.  

"Amy, Lee was  _ always  _ just trying to take care of himself.  There is  _ nothing wrong with that." _

"Did I say there was?!" she spat.  "I don't care if there's something  _ wrong  _ with it.  I care that he  _ hurt Tony _ by not having the balls to be honest about who and what he is!"  

She wasn't shouting by the time she finished speaking, but she was definitely not whispering, either.  She had a strident sort of voice when she really got going, and it was on full display here, cutting across the busy office like a crack through glass.  

"Thank you," Lee said shortly.  He felt his eyebrows beginning to draw down and knit together, and deliberately, consciously, smoothed them out again.  "I appreciate your support of my career, the only thing I've ever wanted to do in my life."

Amy curled her lip up.  "If your career is the only thing you want to do in your life, you really have no business doing Tony."  

Lee pressed his lips together to tightly that his nose ached.

"What.  The  _ FUCK." _

There was a certain level of satisfaction to be found in the way Amy jumped when she saw Tony in the doorway.  Not that she would ever give an inch, which, to be fair—and Lee would be capable of that, later, he knew—was part of what made her magnificent.  "A-B conversation, Tony."

"Yeah, A-B conversation  _ about C, _ and  _ C is me, _ as the great man once said, so I repeat:  What.  The.  Fuck?!"  

He stalked over, arms crossed tightly over his chest, piercing glinting in the sickly fluorescent lights of the office.  He also stopped three or four feet away, which was smart because if he'd come any closer, all three of the men he was approaching would have been loomed over him.  (Amy, of course, was still seated, and furthermore would not have needed to loom, anyway.)  

"Lee.”  Tony’s voice was ominous, about three shades off from full Wizard-voice.  “Go first."

Lee breathed out—not quite a sigh—and did.  "Amy continues to be angry about our breakup," he reported.  "She fails to explain why it's any of her business, and also fails to show a basic understanding of the way the world works, but that's not actually new."

"Your passive-aggressiveness is noted, and, while normally I find your soft human underbelly endearing, it is not particularly appreciated here.  Amy.  Go next."

"I'm allowed to care when someone fucks over my friend," she snarled. 

"But not allowed to decide who I date— _ or _ just fuck— so thanks for that.  Jack?"

Jack held up his hands and stepped back, clearly electing to pursue the better part of valor.  "I like  _ ever getting laid again," _ he said.  "No."  Then he frowned.  "Wait, when did you two 'just fuck'?"

"Fair enough, good call about no cockblocking.  Barnes?"

Barnes hummed.  “She likes things safe,” he said.  “Kinda the opposite of her image.”

"You know, just because you're an internationally-renowned badass doesn't mean I won't murder you and hide the corpse," Amy snarled.

"Yes, it does," Jack told her, then turned back to Lee and Tony.  "You two are fuckbuddies now?"

_ No, because we got interrupted instead, _ Lee didn't say.

"I ask not because it's any of my business, but because it sounds like a phenomenally stupid idea.  Like, apocalyptically bad.  Just my two cents."

"Thank you," Lee said, as sarcastically as he could.

Pretty sarcastic, as it turned out.

"No, it's not your business," Tony grated.   _ "Any _ of you."

"Um?"  Lee raised a hand.

"You are obviously the exception.  If we were fucking, I would tell you."  

Tony also had formidable sarcasm abilities.

_ Gosh, it's like we're made for each other! _

"If we were fucking, believe me, I'd know."  Lee smiled, slow and dirty, while deliberately thinking of the most perverse memories he had from their relationship.  

It made Amy fume audibly, which had been at least a third of the goal.

"Not relevant," Barnes interjected.  He looked like he had a headache, and honestly Lee couldn't exactly blame him.  "Lee Nicholas, Scary Amy, you used to be friends.  Wouldn't that be better?"

It would.

Lee wasn't going first, though; not after all that.

...Okay, yes he would, actually.  Because Barnes was right, as bizarre as it felt to admit it: he would rather have been friends than be vindicated.

"Tony," he sighed, "I hope you know I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"I do," Tony blinked, taken aback.  "We wouldn't still be friends if I didn't."

"Yeah, well...  I also wasn't trying  _ not _ to hurt you, and that wasn't fair.  I'm sorry."  

Amy was looking at him incredulously, and it was almost worth it.

"Uh."  Tony looked poleaxed, blinking in the late-afternoon sun.  "Apology... accepted...?  Wait, no—apology not necessary!  Shit!  I mean.  It hurt, but uh...  I got it?  Like, I understood?  I mean, fuck, I got kicked out of my house for being gay, I know how much losing everything can suck.  I wasn't asking you to change, I just... couldn't stay if you  _ didn't. _  You know?  And yeah, it hurt, but...  That's just the way things are."

"Okay," Lee said, then took a deep breath and let it out again, slowly.  "Okay!"  

Barnes was silent, watching the two of them, before nodding, short and sharp, with approval.  

Then, as one, the entire group turned and looked at Amy.  She had the most awful look on her face, betrayed and confused and, most of all, angry, like he and Tony were the familiar family pets who had attacked her out of the blue for no reason.  She shook her head in refusal, then cut her eyes to the side and shook her head again in something else. 

Resignation.

"Alright.  Fine.  Lee, I hate that you hurt my friend.  I can see that you don't feel like you had a choice, though.  I will stop being a bitch to you."

The whole group relaxed, Lee most of all.  Amy's bitch-powers were formidable, and calling them off was a heck of a concession.  

"Settled," Barnes said—not asking, so much as observing.  "Good.  Now: report."

 

* * *

 

“Not sticking around, then?”  Tony cradled the phone against his cheek while dumping the contents of the take-out container in a bowl.  “I’ll miss you.”  He tried to make it sound flippant, but it came out nauseatingly sincere.   _ Lee would’ve gotten the tone right,  _ he thought mournfully, tossing an egg roll on top of his noodles.

On the other hand, Lee appeared to find Tony’s ineptitudes endearing—still, even—so all was not exactly lost.

“Mm-hmm,” Lee said.  His voice was warm and filthy in Tony’s ear, somehow managing to evoke the memory of that last kiss.  “And I’ll miss you.”  

Tony knocked the rice carton off the counter so that it landed on his foot, his mouth dropping open on a soundless moan.  

_ Jesus, that shit is not fair!  How the hell does he  _ do  _ that?   _ His heart pounded in his chest, striving to redistribute as much blood as it could as quickly as possible.  

“But,” Lee continued, now sounding both more practical and justifiably smug—it wasn’t like the asshole didn’t  _ know  _ what effect he had on Tony—“I have things to do when I get home, now more than ever—”  Probably things involving figuring out how to tell Captain America about Barnes, and  _ what were their lives?!   _ “—and also...  You make it pretty hard to concentrate.”  

He managed to say that last bit without sounding licentious, just rueful, and Tony shook his head in awe and affection.  

“Speaking of things that make it hard to concentrate...”  Tony tripped his way—only semi-literally, thank goodness—into the living room and collapsed on his couch.  “...we should talk.”

“Heavens,” Lee said mildly after a pause that was just a bit too long to be natural.  “How ominous.”

“You’re an asshole,” Tony said affectionately.  “An incredibly brilliant, smokin’ hot asshole.”

“Thank you.”  Tony could hear the pleased smile, not quite a smirk because no matter what Tony said, on the Actors Scale of Assholes, Lee wasn’t even a two.

Tony took a deep breath.  “And I’m in love with you,” he continued.

This time Lee didn’t say anything.

After a moment spent waiting, Tony went on, “That’s what we should talk about.  Because yes, we can be friends, and yes, we can work together, and yes, we can probably even sleep together—”  Lee drew in a sharp breath, and Tony smiled as he kept talking.  “—and still work it out at least kinda, but the fact of the matter is, we’re better as a couple.  Happier as a couple.   _ Because  _ of the whole, ‘me being in love with you’ thing... and because I think... I mean, I’m pretty sure... you’re in love with me, still, too.”

Lee still didn’t say anything, even when Tony let the silence spin out long and thick to prod him.  

“So, you know, we should talk about that.  When I get back to New York, I think.  Face to face.”

Still nothing.

He could hear Lee breathing, he was definitely still on the line and listening.  Definitely.  

Tony checked the display to be sure, just in case.

“Lee?”

Lee coughed, choking on it a little bit.  “Okay,” he said.  His voice sounded hoarse, like he had pneumonia or something.  

(Tony’s hindbrain suggested a couple other things that could make Lee sound hoarse.  Tony’s hindbrain was not actually being helpful.)

“Okay?” Tony asked.  Lee’s coughing-fit-slash-tone could have meant  _ yes good point,  _ it could have meant  _ yeah I’m done with this,  _ it could have meant  _ I am disappointed I won’t get to suck your dick in that apartment one last time,  _ it could have meant  _ holy fuck did the Leafs just score?!,  _ it could have meant any one of half a dozen things.

So screw it; Tony wanted clarity.

“Okay,” Lee repeated.  He cleared his throat again.  “In New York.  Once you’ve moved back.  We’ll talk.”

 

* * *

 

Tony’s last day at the studio was scheduled for two weeks before his first day at HBO, and it was one of the worst and best he had had in awhile.  A lot of people showed up—even Lee, whose plane ticket wasn’t until the day after—and there were an unholy number of presents.  Henry even sent one via CB.  It was eerie.

But it was also his last day in the longest employment he’d had in his life— _ including  _ the nearly four years he had spent hooking—and as a result, his focus was not on his job.  The part that surprised him was how many  _ other  _ people  _ also  _ weren’t focusing on their jobs.  It was like he was some quintessential part of the studio, and him leaving was the end of an era.

Or something.

Like he said:  eerie.  

But, luckily, as he reflected at the small retirement party they were throwing him that evening—unfortunately not late enough for Henry to join them; it was right after the window shot, and half the people there were still absentmindedly wearing headsets—it was showbusiness.  Their show would go on without him; it was the nature of the beast.

He did feel missed, though.  

_ And I will miss them. _

_ Although...   _ He winced as an ear-piercing shriek rang through the studio.   _...not as much as I would have if they had neglected to invite Cheese! _

 

* * *

 

Steve was pretty sure by now that something was up.

When Lee had first started avoiding him, he had blamed it solidly on the breakup—and, honestly, Steve himself had displayed some of the same behavior.  After all, it wasn’t like either of them was any less fond of the other; it seemed easiest.  

When Lee went home to Canada, Steve was less amused.  In part, because he would have liked to have been able to tell Lee about his adventures at Pride; and in part, because if it  _ was  _ related to their... ending of things... then it was a heck of an extreme reaction.  They hadn’t even been properly  _ dating, _ for god’s sake.  

But now, Lee was returning neither phone calls nor texts, and Isaac had said he seemed “weird, especially where you’re concerned, Steve.”  

Steve was reasonably sure that he hadn’t actually  _ done  _ anything to warrant the behavior, but he  _ was  _ puzzled and somewhat alarmed.

And now, it wasn’t just Lee.   _ Tony,  _ of all people, was  _ also  _ avoiding him—Tony Stark, who wouldn’t avoid a skunk in the road if he were driving a convertible—and Bruce, who was usually the go-to resource on all matters Tony-related, didn’t have a clue why.  

Neither did anyone else.  

Neither did  _ Steve,  _ even though—from the pointed asides and furious fume that Tony kept directing at him—he was apparently completely responsible.

It was... troubling.

So it wasn’t very surprising that, when Lee finally  _ did  _ call him, this time asking for help, Steve was only too happy to jump at the chance.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Tony wound up not taking much of his stuff with him to New York.

His video collection, yes; that he shipped, including all the extra money for insurance and careful handling, to his new address in Bed Stuy.  He also took his entertainment system, the same way.  His dishes he donated—no shame in living off paper for a while, he figured—along with most of his furniture—including the dreaded futon; Lee promised him an actual, honest-to-god  _ bed  _ for a moving-in gift—and a significant portion of his clothes, because Henry, Zev, CB, and Amy all ganged up to convince him that his wardrobe was “an absolute travesty, Tony; you are failing in your attempts to represent our people!”

(“Henry, you’re bi, which means you’re  _ not even gay.” _

A sniff.

“I  _ meant  _ Canadians.”

_ “You’re not one of those, either!”) _

His posters, books, and any remaining furniture he shipped the normal, cheap way; it had already arrived by the time he got on the plane, and Clint texted him to assure him that nothing would happen to the truck, which was probably ominous but which Tony chose fondly to interpret as a good sign.  Everything else he threw in the trash, except for the few clothes his friends deemed acceptable, plus his  _ Darkest Night  _ hoodie which he flat refused to give up no matter  _ how  _ many holes it developed; those went in his carry-on.

His flight was at oh-dark-thirty, which had the single silver lining of allowing Henry to drive him to the airport.  They hugged goodbye, Henry smiling in a private sort of way and Tony sniffling but flatly refusing cry.  

Then he was on the plane and flying away, off to begin a new adventure.

 

* * *

 

He touched down in New York City at one o’clock, and  _ Jesus H. Christ it was hot as balls!   _ The air conditioning was mediocre at best in the airport; once he passed to the outside to catch a cab, it was stiflingly hot, the humidity pressing down on him like a living thing.  He got in the cab and asked desperately for a pack of tissues to  _ literally mop his brow  _ with.  “Or  _ something?” _ he begged. 

The cabbie only laughed at him, rolling down the windows before taking off like the car was rocket-powered, which at least provided a bit of a breeze.

When he got to Bed Stuy, Clint was waiting outside with the truck, accompanied by a young lady in short shorts and sleeveless blouse.  It was definitely a blouse, not a shirt—too fancy—and it was infinitely more shirt than Clint was wearing, too.  Tony had met Clint before—twice, once when he came to Vancouver to deliver the Magical Text Full of Stupid, and then again when Lee introduced them for clubbing and/or renting discussions—and on  _ neither occasion  _ had he noticed how  _ fucking ripped  _ the man was.  

Mostly because on both previous occasions, he had been wearing a goddamned shirt!

_ Don’t stress,  _ Tony reminded himself.   _ Today is going to be Enough, even if you don’t stress; you do not need to borrow tension.  Just sit back, relax, and— _ he snickered aloud— _ enjoy the show. _

And it turned out to be good advice, especially because the show didn’t end with Clint.

“Where’s Lee?” Tony asked, once they’d said hi again and actually physically signed the lease.  

Clint shrugged, tossing over the keys while his muscles gleamed as if oiled in the mid-afternoon sunlight.  “I think he said he was picking up some furniture,” he said, voice strangely full of faux-innocence.  “He should be here soon.  Is this all you’ve got?”  

The truck was barely even half-full; the expensively-shipped things—the media collection—wouldn’t arrive for another week, most likely, and as they had both just acknowledged, Lee had promised to take care of most of his furniture.  (The Actual Not-A-Fold-Out bed with Actual Grown-Up-Mattress™ was a gift; the rest of it, Lee was arranging for the purchase and delivery of, and he was paying for it using Tony’s relocation allowance.)  

“Well, this shouldn’t take long at all,” Clint said in satisfaction, before grabbing a box and turning towards the stairs.  “You’re on the second floor here; come on in.”  

Tony graciously avoided watching Clint’s ass while he climbed the stair.  

Much, anyway; it was a very nice ass.

Peachy, really.

They were only four boxes in when two men Tony recognized with a start from the show pulled up together in an old pickup—Geoff and Ken, who played Gabe Jones and Jim Morita, respectively.  

Neither of them was wearing a shirt, either.

Tony started to grin as a niggle of suspicion started to sprout.  

Still, they were good-natured and friendly as they introduced themselves, indicating that, yes, Lee had drafted them to help move him in.  “We didn’t bring anything, we’re just here to lend a hand,” Geoff said innocently.  His wide-nippled pecs gleamed in the sunlight.

“Oh,” Tony nodded seriously, “Sure.”

“Well, I mean...”  Ken jerked a thumb at the back of the truck.  “...I did bring  _ beer.”   _

Beer sounded like a  _ fantastic  _ idea.

Then the truck from the furniture store arrived—not Ikea, either, someplace  _ classy— _ and, with it, the motherload.  

“What the  _ fuck,”  _ Tony laughed.  “Lee, how the hell did you do this?”

Lee grinned at him.  “Welcome to New York, Tony!”  

Lee was  _ also  _ not wearing a shirt.  He looked... really,  _ really  _ good.

His nipple piercing was  _ blinding. _

He was followed out of the truck by Captain America.  Shirtless.

And then the  _ other  _ Captain America, the one Tony had met—Isaac, from the show.  He was  _ also  _ shirtless.

Then a  _ very  _ yummy Black man, who was wearing a shirt—sort of; it didn’t have sleeves, and the arm holes gaped open to about his ribs—but Tony immediately decided that this was negated by the way his loose shorts clung to ass.  Which was... um.  

Yes.

That was a thing.

_ “Lee.” _

“Hold on,” said Captain America, “we made you a sign.”  He probably wasn’t actually saying this in his  _ Captain America Voice,  _ but Tony couldn’t help  _ hearing  _ it that way.  

All of which was how Tony wound up sending a picture back to all of his friends in Vancouver of him surrounded by  _ incredibly gorgeous half-naked men,  _ holding a sign that read  _ I moved to New York and all I got was this half-assed Welcoming Committee,  _ and with  _ Captain America  _ casually holding an entire bookshelf over his head in the background.

 

* * *

 

> **Amy to Tony:** _ Waht the holy shitfucking fuck!!!!!! _
> 
> **Amy to Tony:** _ Hang on, I am coming to New York!!!! _

 

* * *

 

Tony leaned back against his—new, fancy, gray leather—couch, watching over his—also new, also fancy—chrome coffee table as Lee wandered into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him.

As soon as he was locked in, the fire-escape window opened.  

Tony hadn’t had time to paint the room in wards yet.  Henry had sent him a housewarming present composed of eighteen bottles of the proper cough syrup, but it had been held up in customs.

In this case, though, Tony really didn’t think the wards would have helped, anyway.

He let his head sink back against the headrest of the couch, but didn’t break eye contact with the intruder.  “Did you tell him?” he asked.

Barnes looked uncomfortable, and not just because he had one leg in and one leg out of the fire escape.  “Telling him tonight,” he muttered.  “Can I come in, or not?  It’s rainin’ out here, Purza’s getting pissy.”

“Pissy pussy, can’t have that.”

“What?”

“Nothing, I think I’m funny.”  He raised his voice.  “Yes, come in.”

Barnes scowled, but crawled the rest of the way through the fire escape, pausing to push it closed before immediately opening his duffle bag which had, until this point, been yowling in protest.

As soon as he opened it, though, Purza leapt out.  She didn’t circle the room at a run as Tony had half-suspected she might; she did edge cautiously out of the bag, though, looking around her and clearly reserving judgement on what the  _ fuck  _ she had gotten herself into.  “Has she gained weight?” Tony wondered.  It had only been two weeks.

“A little,” Barnes said.  “She’s growing.  And... hungry.  Always.”  

“Huh.” 

They both watched the little cat sniff her cautious way around the room for a while, and then Tony turned to give Barnes his full attention.

“So here’s the deal,” he said.  “You tell Rogers, so I can stop pissing off Lee.  You don’t draw weapons and point them at my friends.  You  _ do  _ clean up after the cat.  You promise all that, you can stay.”

There was a second bedroom in this place, and god knew Tony wasn’t going to use it.

Barnes accepted it all without a hitch, though; wherever he’d been, and whatever he had been doing, while Tony prepped for the move, it had evidently brought him peace.  “Deal,” he said.

He even held out his hand to shake on it.

They did, and Tony returned to the couch.  Barnes, after being instructed on where to find his room and briefly but thoroughly exploring the entirety of the apartment—much in the same way that Purza was doing, although Tony was sure as hell not going to point it out to him—came and stood in the doorway of the living room, scowling and staring.  

Tony took it for less than a minute before breaking and waving Barnes over to sit next to him.

‘Two things you need to know,” he said.  “The first is, once you’ve talked to Rogers, you really should talk to our landlord Clint, because he kind of needs a super, which I think you could do, and because it would give you some semblance of legitimacy, here, which I think you could use.”

Barnes stared at him, unblinking, for nearly a full minute after he finished talking.  It was clearly not one of the good days, but that was alright; the good days would come.  Blinking rapidly, he shook his head and looked out at the fire escape.  

Tony had a pretty good feeling about it, though.  And after all, wizards saw what was there.

“What’s the second thing?” Barnes asked, not looking back at him.

“The second thing?  ‘Well, that’s none of your business, actually.’”

Apparently Barnes didn’t recognize the quote; he scowled, slipping back out the window as silently as he had come in.

Lee must have slipped out of the bathroom while Tony was studying Barnes, because now he leaned over the back of the sofa, voice warm in Tony’s ear and sending tingles down his spine.   _ “The Music Man?”   _

“What?  I thought it was good.  Y’know... for a musical.”  

It was an old argument.  Lee unapologetically  _ loved  _ musicals, and—completely unfairly—could in fact sing; Tony tended to find musicals hokey, at best.  But he had watched a few of the older ones with Lee, because it neatly crossed over their interests, and had admitted to enjoying the villain-redeemed storyline of Robert Preston.  

“I’m not rising to that bait,” Lee said, folding his arms over the back of the couch and leaning.  “I  _ am  _ going to point out, though, that the line may not refer to what you think it refers to.”

“I think the line refers to Harold Hill wanting to bone the hell out of Mrs. Partridge.”

“Oh.”  Lee paused.  “Well, then you  _ do  _ know what the line refers to.”  He side-eyed Tony, a hint of a smile making the visible corner of his mouth tick up.  “So, when you used it just now...”

“Is there a reason you put an entire couch between us for this conversation?”

Lee smiled brilliantly, and Tony’s heart pounded, same as it always had.  “Poor strategy?”

“Very.”  Tony reached up and tugged, pulling Lee bodily over the back of the couch.  It didn’t work  _ quite  _ as smoothly as anticipated...  

“Ow!  Damn it?  Fuck!”  

...but did still end with them in the desired position, so fuck it, Tony was putting it on the “suave” list.

Plus, now he had a lapful of Lee, just  _ right there,  _ looking mussed and fond and with his eyes all dark and lips all pink and...

When Lee spoke, it was very, very hard to focus on his words, instead of on his mouth moving.  “You said we should talk.”

“Did I?”

Sometime after the furniture moving and before the pizza had arrived, Lee had put on a loose white t-shirt; Tony leaned forward to tug it up over his belly button now, revealing the smooth trail of dark hair that Lee would probably have to shave off at some point this season.

“You did.”  Lee stretched, arching his back over Tony’s folded legs so that his head was even more in Tony’s lap.  “Something about you still being in love with me?  And me still being in love with you?”

Tony swallowed, reluctantly leaning back and getting his head in the game.  “Yeah.  About that.”

“I am, by the way.”

Tony blinked.

“Still in love with you,” Lee clarified.

He should not feel so  _ ridiculously  _ charmed by that, what the fuck.  

“Are you sure?  I mean, you’ve dated a couple of other people since, I wouldn’t be surprised—”

“Tony.”

Names had power; for example, the use of his in this context was pretty effective at shutting him up.

“Dating other people gave me  _ more  _ clarity, not less.  I love you; I am  _ in love  _ with you.”  Lee didn’t hesitate  _ much,  _ but then, Lee was a very, very good actor; even that much pause was significant.  “I am in love with you to the point that I am  _ considering  _ risking the damage to my career by coming out, if it means I get to be with you.”

Lee was a very,  _ very  _ good actor; the tension  _ almost  _ didn’t show in his shoulders, his throat, his jaw.  His eyes, to anyone who hadn’t known him as long or as well as Tony had, would have looked completely relaxed.  

All of it useless, given his audience.  Tony was much too close now to be fool.

_ Wizards see what’s there. _

Lovers, too, sometimes.

“Yeah, you would fucking hate that,” Tony said, giving up on dignity to slump against the back of the sofa.  “Don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t be pissed at me, sooner or later, once the damage was done.”

Lee grimaced and made an indecisive gesture with his hand.  “It’ll help that I’m bi,” he admitted, “and not gay.  And timing—if I do it this year, I’m sunk, but if we let  _ THC  _ get really,  _ really  _ popular first, I’ll be too far into it to fire and replace me...  I could do it next year with just about the nadir of consequences.”

“Mm, or the year after the show ends, if you don’t get a big gig afterwards.”

Lee grimaced.

“Not that you wouldn’t!” Tony hastened to add.  “You’re magnificent, any show would be blessed to have you!  I just... meant...”

Lee gave him a dry look.  “Nice recovery.  No, but it’s—that’s five years away.  I couldn’t ask you to—”

“Oh.”

“—not for  _ five years,  _ I just...”

Tony took a deep breath, steeling himself...

...and then compromised.  

“Well...   We wouldn’t be living together for... a while, right?  Because we’re just re-starting this and that’s a big step, especially on top of a  _ bunch of other changes that rearrange my life?”   _

Lee looked  _ absurdly  _ hopeful.  “I mean, not immediately, no...”

“And then, you know, even once we are ready to take that step, maybe it’s not so bad, calling you my roommate on set, and hearing you say ‘my friend’ in interviews?”

Lee scrubbed at his face.  “You’re saying,  _ wait and see,  _ and that’s...  That’s what we did  _ last time,  _ Tony.  It didn’t end well.  It ended...”  He shifted around to edge further into Tony’s lap.  “...It ended with a lot of pain.”

“Yeah,” Tony sighed.  “I remember.”  He gave in to temptation and brushed his left hand—the wizard hand—through Lee’s hair, feeling the softness of it, the thickness, between his fingers.

Lee responded by digging his fingers into Tony’s thigh, rubbing back and forth.  “I want a plan, this time.  When are we going to do it?  How long is too long for this to go on without anyone knowing?”

“Besides the people who will already know,” Tony added, groaning a little as Lee’s fingers found sensitive spots.  “I mean, there are a lot of people at CB Productions who had figured us out.”

“Yeah, and we’re not the most subtle on set,” Lee said.

“You mean  _ I’m  _ not the most subtle.”

“Well...  yes.”

Tony considered pretending to be upset for a minute, then shrugged, scratching a little above Lee’s left ear.  “Yeah, you’re right.  So that’s another factor, here; how long until someone just spills the beans, and you can’t control the spin any more?”

Lee sighed, eyes staring into the middle distance.  He looked pensive and beautiful, and Tony was abruptly  _ done  _ with this conversation.  “Have you talked with your agent about this?” 

Lee jerked a little as he came back to reality from... wherever he had gone.  “No, not yet.”

“Call him tomorrow,” Tony offered, “and we’ll let  _ him  _ pick the strategy.  That  _ is _ his  _ job,  _ right?”

“I...”  Dark brows furrowed, then rose in acknowledgement.  “Yes, actually.  But—”

“—But tonight, it’s just us,” Tony interrupted.  He ran his hand down the treasure trail which had been calling him for the last five minutes.  “And while it’s his job to  _ spin  _ your life, it’s not his job to  _ choose  _ it, so we’ll just take all the strategy off the table for tonight.”  He let his hand keep going, and Lee arched obligingly, letting him access his fly.  

“You said before...”  Lee’s head was hanging back on his neck, his eyes starting to lid.  “...that you didn’t want to move to New York with me... if I was—”  His breath hitched.  “Jesus, Tony!—if I wasn’t going to be out.”

Tony rolled his eyes and shoved Lee’s shirt up his chest enough to access the nipple ring, because trust an actor to make it all about himself.  “Lee.  I didn’t want to move to New York  _ for you  _ while you were closeted.  Doing it for  _ me  _ is an entirely different story.”  

Yeah, they were doing this.  Tony started to pull his own shirt off, and Lee made an interested noise and sat up a little.  “So, even if I’m not entirely sure what the plan is...?”  

Tony kissed him, holding his face—which Lee loved, and they both knew it,  _ remembered  _ it from before—and pressing their bare chests together, nipping a little bit and passing the initiative back and forth, never quite pulling away enough to break the kiss but occasionally taking a breath.  Lee moved with it, went with his flow, wrapping his arms around Tony to hold him in place, and by the time they pulled apart for real, there was a thin trail of spit stretching between their mouths and they were both gasping for breath.

“I love you,” Tony said, and then  _ watched Lee’s eyes dilate.   _ “And you love me.  And we have both grown and learned about compromise.  So all things considered, fuck it, we will  _ make it work,  _ now will you  _ please—” _

Lee did.

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

I have twenty-four hours to find Rogers and talk to him before Lee Nicholas spills the beans.

Yeah, I ain’t looking forward to this.

There are half a dozen ways I can think of to get Rogers’ attention but most of them involve property damage or worse.  The simplest way, though, and the safest, is a fake meet, so while Nicholas and I are inevitably both over at Tony’s place—Tony’s and my place, now, I guess, and isn’t that a weird thought—I swipe his phone and ask Rogers to join me at a bar in Brooklyn.  It’s a lot closer to me than to him, and I get the feeling Rogers’ll be able to find it just fine; I still give him an hour and a half to get there, though.  

Then I put the phone back.

Neither one of those yahoos notices me do it.

I get to the bar half an hour early, nursing a vodka with soda in a corner booth and reading a paperback about the habits of highly effective people.  As a highly effective person myself, I don’t find it to be particularly accurate, but then the methods I used to get here were pretty unusual, so there you go.  The writing is simple, anyway, and it’s the sort of thing that everybody’s read at some point, so it blends in.

Rogers arrives early by ten minutes, walking in with a curious, but not alarmed, expression on his face.  He looks around the bar, clearly scanning for Nicholas, and doesn’t see him.

He sure as hell spots  _ me,  _ though.

His face goes dead white, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to pass out.  He gulps instead, taking in air and gathering his wits, and then crosses the room faster than I would have thought he’d have had in him, slipping between people fast and unobtrusive, eeling through the crowd before dropping down into the chair across from me.  

His jaw hangs kind of slack, and he doesn’t say anything.

I let my book flop closed—I’d been holding it one-handed, the other one tucked in my sleeve and then into the pocket of my sweatshirt to keep it from view—and lean back in the booth.  I don’t say anything, either.

It should be awkward.  Anyone else in the world, it would  _ definitely  _ be awkward.  I don’t know why it  _ isn’t  _ awkward.

But instead, it’s kind of... nice?  Familiar, but in a way I can’t put my finger on at all.

Homey.

So we sit, and we stare at each other, and we say nothing.

For about, oh... seven minutes?

 

* * *

 

Rogers is the first one to break it.  Of  _ course  _ he fucking is.

“I thought you were dead,” he rasps.  His eyes are wet, but nothing’s spilling over yet; his nose is red, too, and I reflect gleefully that he seems to be an ugly crier.

Good.  The guy’s too perfect, otherwise.

I say, “Yeah,” and then stop.  I shift my weight, and yup, finally,  _ now  _ it’s awkward.  

Rogers’ presence?  Totally fine.  

Rogers’  _ questions?   _ Deeply problematic.

I clear my throat, and start again.  “I wished I was, for a while there.”

The memories are coming back slow, much more slowly than I would have guessed.  It’s like my healing factor—so effective for everything else—just  _ stops  _ at my brain.  Pretty frustrating.  But I have enough, now—it doesn’t fucking  _ take much— _ to know that the first few years of my...  _ conditioning...  _ were pretty much complete and utter shit.  

No, not shit; don’t be euphemistic.

Fucking  _ torture,  _ actually.

So anyway.  Yeah.  

For a few years there.

Rogers is shaking his head, rejecting the idea.  “Don’t say that,” he says.  His voice is  _ ugly— _ it’s a croak, a completely broken thing.  His shoulders twitch, kinda like they want to full-on shake but he won’t let them.

I shrug.  “Didn’t say I still do,” I offer.

This is awful.

I watch him struggle with it.

This is  _ completely  _ awful.  Fucking  _ putrid.   _

His jaw works, and then clenches.  “Do you...  Do you have a place to stay?”  He looks about ready to offer me a ten-room mansion with a solid gold toilet, if I’ll take it.  He’s fucking  _ desperate,  _ clearly trying to think of  _ anything  _ that’ll get a connection between us so he doesn’t  _ lose me  _ again.

“Yep,” I say.  “Place to stay.  Clothes.  Food.  Cat.”

The relief pours off him like steam out of a freshly-roasted chicken.  

“Good!  That’s—that’s good, I...”  He stops and breaks off, shaking his head to try to clear it.  “Holy god, Bucky,  _ I thought you were dead!”   _

“Yeah,” I say softly.  “I know.” 

But the dam is breached, now, and the questions start pouring out.  “How are you alive?  How did you survive the fall?  Why haven’t you aged?  What’s going on?  How did you find me—”  He stops as he realizes why he came here tonight, blinking in the dim, smoky light of the bar, tilts his head to the side suspiciously, and finishes much more slowly.  “—and how did you get access to Lee Nicholas’ phone?”

“Nicked it,” I say, answering the last question first.  “I put it back when I was done, I didn’t permanently steal it or anything.”

“Well that’s... good,” he says, watching me with a little frown.

I’m suddenly done, needing to get the last piece out before answering any of his stupid questions that I mostly don’t know the answers to, anyway.

“You offered me a job,” I remind him.

“I did?  I mean, I’m happy to find you one, but anything I promised you back in the day, Bucky, that’s probably gone—”

“Not back in the day,” I cut him off.  “In Chicago.”

He has about half a second to look patriotically confused, and then I put my left hand on the table.

It’s almost heartbreaking, watching the shock hit his face.  He slumps back in his chair, raising his hand almost as if he’s going to reach out to me, but then curls it into a fist, instead, and presses it against his mouth.  

His eyes are  _ awful.   _ He looks like he just mentally aged about a hundred years.

“What—” he starts to ask, but then stops.   _ What happened to you? _

But of course it’s pretty obvious; I already know he has all the pieces to put it together.  

Since he’s already told me he found the file on me, and all.

He shakes his head, eyes not focusing on anything, just slowly moving his head back and forth in an instinctive rejection of the truth I’ve just shown him.  I don’t even think he knows he’s moving, to be honest; probably hasn’t realized he’s doing it.  

Then he tries again.  “How—”  Swallows, licks his lips.  “How long did they have you?”

“The whole time,” I say.  We’re both talking at normal volumes, now, although his voice is pretty hoarse.  “Thanks for blowing them the fuck up, by the way.  Pretty convenient.”

He smiles like his face is made of broken glass.  “Anytime, Buck.”

For  _ god only knows  _ what reason, I blush, cutting my eyes away to look around the bar.

“You, uh...  You mentioned...  Did you  _ want  _ the job?  Because, god, it’s yours, anytime, of  _ course,  _ just say the—”

“Maybe.”

He stops.

“I just...  I want to... help.  I’ll turn over my intel—not much left, anyway—and then... take a break?  And if I feel like getting back in... I could contact you?”

I sound like a moron.

He looks pretty pathetically grateful for even this much, though, so maybe a moron is good enough.

“What about...  Do you have a phone?”

I twitch one shoulder in a shrug.  “I can.”

“Okay.”  He takes a huge, him-sized breath, in and then out, and then pulls a comically tiny notebook out of a back pocket.  “Here’s my number, and my email.  I’ll...”  He looks away, and then back, uncertainty clear in his expression.  “I  _ can...  _ if you want... take steps to clear your name?  Some sort of plea deal with regard to your, uh...”  Several decades worth of assassinations.  “...crimes.”

I feel suddenly exhausted.

“You really think there’s much of anything that can make up for what I’ve done?” I ask.  My voice comes out low and vicious, and I wince a little at my own tone.

Fuck, but it’s the truth, though.

Still, his eyes are clear and certain when he answers.  “I think that the fact that all of it was done under duress makes a hell of a difference.  I think you wouldn’t have killed  _ any  _ of those people if left to your own devices, and I  _ know  _ that it’s legally unprosecutable.  No way.  So yeah, actually.  I do.”  He smiles, wry and self-mocking, and my heart turns over in my chest because something about it is so fucking  _ familiar.   _ “And I’d’ve said all that before I knew who you were, too.”

I close my eyes, and let out a breath.

_ Pay attention to this, _ I tell myself.   _ Pay attention to how this feels. _

Warm.  Safe.

Growing.

Like a tiny spring sprout reaching towards the sun.

_ Okay,  _ I think.   _ Okay.  I can do this. _

He holds the paper with his phone number—and email—out to me, and instead of taking it, I put my warm hand on his wrist.  The skin feels hot, throbbing beneath me, but that’s probably just my imagination.

I say, “There’s something else we gotta talk about.”

He relaxes, nodding.  “Sure, Bucky.  Anything.”  

He means that, too.  

God.

“In DC,” I say.  “I abandoned mission.”

After a moment, he realizes I’m waiting for him, and nods.

“Do you know why.”

Did Lee Nicholas tell him.  Did he break his word.

But no, Steve is shaking his head.  “I don’t,” he says.  “I...”  His mouth quirks up again in that same bitter smile.  “...I suppose it’d be flattering myself to assume it was because you remembered me?”

I offer him a quick smile of my own in return.  “I did, actually.  Just... not from my own memories.  When they first...”  He’s going to hate this word choice.  “...activated me, I was... malfunctioning.”

Sure enough, his hand clenches into a fist.  I’m not expecting what he says next, though.

“Actually, you were dying.”  

I was?

“According to the medical files we found, anyway.  Brain hemorrhages like crazy, Doc Banner said.  It must have been incredibly painful.”  He watches me across the table carefully, maybe  _ finally  _ evaluating me as a potential enemy like he should’ve been doing from the beginning.  “Does your version of the serum allow morphine to work?”

“Dunno,” I say, uncomfortable with the question.  

His knuckles go white.  

“So I was...  I wasn’t as broken as they were used to me being, and I... I got a bunch of... memories... of you.  And some other stuff, but...  You.  You were... good.  In a way I knew as a fact.  And that meant that the guys sending me after you...  _ weren’t  _ good.  So I... I bolted.  Went looking for answers, basically.”

“You got a bunch of memories of me,” Steve repeats slowly.

I nod.

“And they... weren’t  _ your  _ memories.”

I nod again.

“And then tonight... you texted me from Lee Nicholas’ cell phone.”  

I don’t bother nodding, this time.

Rogers has clearly arrived at the correct conclusion, but I still wait for him to say it out loud before confirming.  After a minute, he says cautiously, “A few months ago, Lee had an...  _ encounter...”   _

“The witches.”

“Whom you  _ know about.   _ Right.  And he got your memories, which—”  He looks stricken as this part occurs to him.  “—really  _ weren’t  _ much, oh God.  Um.”

“Yeah,” I say softly.  “Yeah.  You’ve got it; it was a two-way spell.”

He looks like he’s just about ready to vomit all over the table.  “Is it still transmitting?” he asks.

I blanch.  “No!  Ugh, Jesus, no!  No, it just... lifted and dumped the contents, like a bucket into the bath, not...  It’s not a  _ telephone  _ or anything, Jesus.”

We are both very relieved by this, breathing heavy and sitting back in our seats.

_ What’s he been doing since the spell, that he’s so worried I might’ve seen it, anyway?! _

“Okay...” he says.  He’s looking at me cautious, but not scared or anything.  And if he’d put this together, he definitely would be scared, for sure.  “...so you also know a fair bit about the Avengers?”

I think about how to say it, and then give up and just stroke my thumb over the pulse-point on the inside of the wrist I’m still holding.  He looks down sharply, and then up at me in confusion.

And then in slow-dawning comprehension.

And then in horror.

“Oh, God,” he moans.  “Oh, God, no.  Bucky, you—you  _ weren’t ever supposed to know.”   _

I stroke again, deliberately, my thumb firm against the soft, thin skin.  “Well...  I do.”

He crumbles.  “I’m sorry,” he says.  “I am so, so, sorry, I—it’s not something I could  _ help,  _ you know?”  And then, quieter enough I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to hear it, “God knows I tried.”

“Don’t want you to be sorry.”

He is frozen, shrunk back against the slats of his chair.  “I...”  He shakes his head.  “What?”

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” I repeat.  “It ain’t your fault.  Not really a fault at all, if y’think about it.”  

I’ve been scowling at the table, and now I look back up at him, but before I can say anything he heaves this huge sigh of relief.  “Okay,” he says, “Okay.  Thank you—Bucky,  _ thank you,  _ for...”  He’s looking away and pressing his lips together, struggling for composure.  “...for still being my friend, after all this.”

I swipe my thumb a third time, and don’t say anything.

This is the thing I’ve been thinking about, for the last few days  since Lee Nicholas told me to talk to Steve.  I  _ should  _ have been worrying about my crimes or maybe about him wanting me to jump right back into fighting Hydra with him, but nah, those ain’t the worst things that can happen.  My crimes... I did them, so getting punished for that isn’t awful.  It just feels fair.  And fighting Hydra, well, I was doing that on my own.  So it’s nice that those two things won’t be a problem, but they weren’t what I’ve been thinking about while haunting a series of late-night diners, drinking unfortunate amounts of coffee and consequently peeing about eight hundred times.  They aren’t the thing that’s been so scary I put this meeting off until the last possible second, not the reason I almost chickened out three times on the way here.  They’re not the reason I’m glad Steve was so early, because I coulda worked in a fourth time if I’d been given a little space.

Right now, I know, Steve is mostly just glad to have his friend back.  Honestly, earnestly, glad, and it’s pretty sweet.  

But some day, we’re going to be talking together, and I’m gonna do something—or even just the light is going to change, Christ; Steve always was a visual kinda guy—and suddenly he’s going to be looking at me in a different way, he’s gonna remember all those old feelings and all that unrequited lust and he’s gonna  _ want,  _ and I don’t know—don’t have a  _ single, solitary, goddamned clue— _ how I’m gonna handle that.

Don’t even know what I’m gonna  _ want. _

It’s one fucking thing for your friend to have a crush on you, but it’s an  _ entirely different thing  _ to actually  _ know  _ about it.  

And I ain’t exactly prime cut these days.

But on the other hand...   _ How much I can trust this person? _ plays into that strange calculus that determines attraction for me, a lot more than _ What do they look like?  _ does, now.  

So maybe...

...maybe.

Someday.

So I don’t say anything; I just stroke my thumb over the inside of his wrist, and watch him across the table, and it’s... 

It’s... enough.

For now.

* * *

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Aaaand, we're done!  Thanks to all who came with me on the trip; it was a total blast!  Thanks again to knutmegwrites, thank you to all my regular commenters whom I have grown to know and love, thank you to all the people who have dropped kudoi or comments ever on this fic, and thank you to all the friends I've made here!

...And now I'm not going to write in first person present again for another nine years, including in the after credits scene.

Speaking of which...

 

* * *

 

AFTER CREDITS SCENE:

 

* * *

 

“You heading out for the night?”

Lee Nicholas is looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

Bucky Barnes nods, then pulls his book up, trying once again to lose himself in the pages, even though he hasn’t turned a singled damned page in the last ten minutes.

“I take it Steve is picking you up?”

“You know, that never gets less weird.”  Tony is lying on the couch with his head in Lee’s lap, a cheap styrofoam container of egg rolls balanced on his stomach.  “You calling Captain America by his first name, I mean.”

“It really does,” Lee points out.  

Then he steals an egg roll.  

Sneaky.

_ Nice. _

“If you say so,” Tony says doubtfully.  He shifts from side to side, settling in more comfortably.  “He coming to the door for you, Barnes?”

Bucky Barnes nods, then scowls and goes back to the first sentence of the page again.

A knock sounds, and Lee says, “Speak of the devil.”

Putting his book aside, Bucky opens the door.

Steve dresses up  _ nice,  _ he thinks, looking up and down his old friend’s enormous, golden frame.  

_ Very  _ nice.

_ Hmmm... _

It’s like setting a dislocated bone, the way everything seems to snap into place around Steve.  The way it’s suddenly effortless to be more casual, less vigilant and more relaxed, than he can ever achieve on his own—as if someone were watching his back.  The way he doesn’t feel like he’s trying to live up to some impossible standard.

The way he feels at home in his body, not as if it’s a tool he’s familiar with using, or as if it’s a vehicle, which he inhabits and which he can use but which isn’t truly part of him, but rather as if it is the one he has known all along, the one which is right for him to use—even if it can do some things, now, which used to be wildly beyond its scope.

The way he feels warm, and not really frozen at all, anymore.

Steve says hi to Lee and Tony, glancing around their shabby little Bed Stuy apartment like it’s a genuinely interesting place before his gaze is drawn like a lodestone back to Bucky.

Then he frowns, and looks around the apartment again.  He asks, “Where did you get that painting?”

The painting is hanging on the wall opposite the television.  Its colors are vivid, but dark, depicting firelight as reflected in a wall of bottles; an old bar.  Two women with sharp eyes peer at the viewer from behind their counter; a shadowy ghost sits threateningly at the only table in frame.  It’s called  _ New Beginnings Begetting Old Friends. _

Tony looks blankly at him, then shrugs.  “Housewarming gift,” he says.  

Steve looks genuinely startled.  “Seriously?”  He laughs.  “From  _ who?” _

Tony’s eyebrows go up, and he half-sits up, sliding off of Lee’s lap.  “From my friend Henry...” he says, watching Steve curiously.  “...Why?”

Steve’s jaw drops slowly, staring at Tony incredulously.  Then he crosses the room and points out a menacing figure, which lurks against the dark void of an exit in the back wall of the painting.  “Is that him?” he asked.  “Your friend Henry, I mean.”  His voice is full of a shared joke which Bucky doesn’t get.

Tony gets up and crosses to stand beside Steve, peering at the painting.  “Probably,” he admits, “But how the hell do you know?”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling.  “Because,” he says, “I painted it.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
